


Lawrence, Kansas

by gaydaractivate04



Series: The Apple Pie Life [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Adopted, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Brotherly Love, Eventual Fluff, Foster Family, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Murder, John is a bad guy, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Rescue, Sam and Dean aren't the serial killers, Serial Killer John Winchester, Smart Dean Winchester, The Winchesters and The Law, Whump, and a bad parent, and an awful person, everything turns out okay, i can’t believe i forgot that, john is, just wanna make that clear, told y'all I'd update the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: John WinchesterAge: Fourty sixEthnicity: CauscasianHeight: 6’ 1”Weight: 220-240 lbsKnown relations: Mary Winchester (deceased), Dean Winchester (unknown), Sam Winchester (unknown)Latest report: (Off. Wilson, Lawrence, Kansas department)John Winchester captured/subdued Elizabeth G. at 200 hours, November 12. Victim was then taken to secondary location, a cabin in nearby woods. Over the course of approx. 15 hours, victim was given blunt force trauma to the torso, severe bruising of the wrists and upper arms, along with minor cuts along the shins. Suspected damage to ankles from irons/chains.At approx. 1900 hours, victim escaped. Assisted by suspected son of John Winchester, Dean Winchester. Further examination of site required.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & OCs, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester (Background), Sam Winchester & Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester & OCs
Series: The Apple Pie Life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959286
Comments: 349
Kudos: 356





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy the story!

_Hitchhiking was a mistake. The biggest mistake of her life._ That was the only coherent thought that would stay in Lizzie’s head as she pelted through the forest, dodging stumps and jumping over fallen trees. Behind her, she could hear the sound of someone- _two someones_ -gaining on her. 

Gaining faster than she’d like. 

_This is the craziest fucking trip I have ever taken._ Some hysterical part of her wanted to laugh. Who would suspect that some trucker looking guy and his _son_ were a pair of psychopathic murders? 

_Who the fuck would be prepared for that?_

She swears under her breath as a low-hanging branch clips her in the face. Eyes watering, she doesn’t see the root- _and the ditch-_ until it’s too late. Her ankle twists underneath her, hands go flying to catch herself-

But there’s nothing to grab onto. 

Then a body barrels into her, sending her away from the teetering edge, slamming her to the ground. Lizzie bucks as she falls, clawing at the arms around her and going to scream for help- _but it’s the middle of nowhere, little miss. Who’s gonna hear you calling for help? Who’s gonna come and save you, save you from me?-_ before a hand clamps around her mouth and she’s pinned to the floor between a pair of legs.

A face pops into her view and shen feels another shock of fear as she recognizes the boy from the car. His face is half covered in blood, a welt rising on his temple. She felt a savage satisfaction at knowing those were from her.

“ _Listen,_ ” he whispered. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m going to get you out of here. But you have to promise me, when I take my hand away, you won’t scream _.”_

With one hand clamping her jaw closed, he reached the other behind his back, pulling a handgun from his waistband. The boy leaned even closer, putting his lips right against her ear, his voice barely a breath.

“I won’t shoot you, I promise. I’m going to give you the gun and you are going to run.” He moved to make eye contact with Lizzie, face nearly touching hers. “I just have to tell you something first. Nod if you understand.”

Slowly and clearly, she nodded, the boy waiting until she finished to let go. She felt the temptation to shout anyways, but who’d hear? The older man, who was still running a distance away? It wasn’t worth it.

The boy leaned to whisper in her ear again, gun still in his grip. “If you run a mile east, you’ll find a road. Turn left when you get there and don’t stop until you get to town,” he said, pointing with his other hand. “Once you get there, head straight to the sheriff’s office. Are you getting all of that?”

She nodded, hands clenched at her sides to stop them from shaking. “A mile east, turn left at the road. Sheriff’s office.”

In the wane light, she saw the boy give a faint smile. “Good. Go right there and tell them what happened. Tell them you escaped from John Winchester.”

_John Winchester? Oh shit, oh shit, a holy fucking heaping pile of shit-_

“Tell them you escaped from John Winchester, who has two sons. Sam and Dean Winchester. Get in contact with some higher up officials, no doubt they’ll want to talk to you. Tell them Dean said to look for my sign.” He said it so matter of factly. “Repeat it back.”

“Got away from John Winchester. Two sons, Sam and Dean. Tell them to look for your sign.” The boy- _Dean fucking Winchester-_ nodded when she finished. He handed her his gun, handle first.

“Do you know how to use one of these?” She’d grown up on a fucking farm with a hunter family, _of course_ she knew how to handle a measly little handgun. It must have shown on her face, because Dean pulled her to her feet, taking a few steps away. “Shoot me.”

“What?” Lizzie couldn’t stop herself from asking. 

“ _Shoot me._ ” He snarled. The sound of footsteps was getting steadily louder. “Do it quick, in the shoulder or torso, somewhere that hurts. Then _run._ ” She didn’t let herself hesitate, pulling the trigger and sprinting like her life depended on it- _cause it did_ -trying to forget the pained grunt and thump she heard behind her.

She didn’t stop at the road, didn’t stop when she reached the first buildings of the town. Not when she reached the sheriff’s station, people gawking at the gun in her hand. Not when she burst into the sheriff’s office, collapsed into a chair, and told him everything.

———————-

Their office was pretty busy, especially considering it was past ten o'clock at night and on a Saturday. Well, not what you'd call busy, but definitely more than ten people milled about the building. Word was that there had been some pop-ups of a suspect on the most wanted list. Honestly, Officer Manuel could care less.

He just wanted to go home, go to sleep, or- _please, if there's a God out there-_ some decent fucking coffee. That's all. He didn't want to be stuck here filing papers until one in the morning, or listening to his coworkers blabber on about whatever their cases were on. He _definitely_ did not want his partner, Officer Hayes, to stroll up to him and plop down onto his desk.

Plop down right on top of a pile of paperwork. Which he was presently filling out, red pen still in hand. 

"You know, it's awfully late around here pa'tner," said Hayes, adopting a terrible accent, one that could only be in cowboy movies from the 30's. "This buildin' ain't big enough for the both of us. One of us is gonna have to leave this here place." He glared up at her as she did her best imitation of hooking her thumbs into a belt and spitting- _which was pretty damn good considering there wasn't a belt._

"If this is some delayed attempt to get me to go home, it won't work, even if I want to leave," He muttered, attempting to pull the papers out from underneath her. No luck, her thighs and bodyweight combined held strong. Manuel flopped back in his chair and hurried to explain as Hayes straightened up, contorting her face into what could only be described as the embodiment of stupid. "I've got to get these papers filed and filled out by tonight. The Big B said so."

It was a running joke between them to call the head boss 'Big B' after he panicked when a wasp was in his office and ran out shouting 'There's a big bee in there!'. A joke that'd been running for more than the appropriate number of years; they'd been careful not to say it in front of him.

"Well, you can't be around to do papers if you've got a case, can you?" She smirked as she pulled a manila folder up from beside her. he could see papers poking from the top and bottom, paperclips securing what were probably photos inside. Manuel groaned and ran a hand down his face.

"Hayes, we don't have time for a case right now." He gestured to the files strewn across his desk and the others around him. "Everyone's drowning in this shit, we can't just leave them to it."

His partner leaned forward, a glint in her eye that always appeared when she was about to get what she wanted. _How does she do that? Is it fucking remote control or something?_ She pushed the file in front of him, flipping it open to the first page, the suspect's name blaring up at him.

"You gotta be kidding me. Another?" John Winchester had been active for just over 12 years, starting after his wife (and presumably children, but they never found the bodies) had died in a house fire. Serial killers didn't have shit on this guy; he had no digital footprint, barely anyone reported seeing him in town after he struck, and he never stayed in one place more than a month. There were probably still bodies and missing persons cases they'd never be able to link to him, but were most certainly his.

"She was his would-be victim. He had her for less than 24 hours." It took a second for his brain to catch up, to actually process what his friend was saying.

"Would-be? She got away?" Nobody got away from Winchester. _Nobody._ His partner nodded, flipping the pages in the file until she got to a police report, written by one Officer Wilson, of the Kansas police department. 

"Yep," Hayes said, popping the 'p'. She outright grinned as she spoke again. "From his son." 

That's impossible. The oldest of Winchester's kids would be sixteen, if he'd even lived that long. Why the hell would a psychopathic killer bring a kid along, let alone two, for years on end? _Unless he was teaching them the new family business, trying to pass it on as he slowed down._ They'd never found any bodies or remains in the years the police had searched. Manuel leaned back in his chair as it hit him, plastic digging into his back. 

"So were, exactly, in Kansas is the victim?" He dragged his gaze up to meet his partners, suddenly no feeling any need for coffee at all. The shit adrenalin and sleep deprivation could do for you, man. Hayes dropped off his desk, scooping up the folder and closing it with one hand, keys in the other.

"Lawrence. A few hours drive from here." She'd obviously planned this out, a pair of take out coffees resting on the desk next to his. Manuel grabbed them after swinging on his jacket and- _attempting to_ -straighten out his desk. He hurried after Hayes, calling to one of the newer recruits about doing the papers on his desk and that they'd be back in a while. The pair of them ignored questions called after them, instead rushing to one of the cars and unlocking it, the coffees, being such precious cargo, were placed into cup holders before either got in. 

He sent a quick text to his husband about where he was going and that it was a work thing, looking up just in time to avoid getting hit in the face with the victim's file, instead grabbing it and setting it in his lap. 

"How long did you say the drive was?" He squinted at the maps on his phone. There was no way in hell it would be less than three hours to get there.

"Just a few," she replied innocently. "Only about five." _Goddamn it._


	2. Burns and Bruises

Dean had decided that he did not like this house. The pipes in the wall creaked and the walls seemed to be as thin as cardboard, boots going through it with a single kick. The flickering, buzzing lights didn’t help his pounding headache either. 

The one advantage- _ if you could even call it that- _ was that the house was far away from all others, perched on the side of hill, surrounded by a pathetic excuse for a forest. At least, John thought it was an advantage. They’d hightailed it out of Lawrence after his last victim escaped, John waiting until they made out before turning to Dean. 

During the drive there Sam had bandaged his wound as best he could, seeing as Dean was driving the car and they couldn’t get the bullet out yet. John had only made sure the stitches were in securely before letting all his anger out on him. 

Hence why he was now slumped against the radiator, the only heating appliance in the dilapidated house, his hands cuffed to the sides of it. Sam had been told to leave him there, their father heading out for a drink, banking on the fact that they were hours away from Lawrence at this point and news was yet to be released. 

Of course, it took all of ten minutes to ensure John wouldn’t be returning soon for Sam to come and help him. The floorboards shuddered underneath him as Sam hurried into the room, a white medical kit clutched in his hands. He paused only to set it aside before picking the cuffs. 

Sam was careful when opening them, trying to gently pull them away from his wrists. The abrasions underneath them split again at the movement, blood leaking down his arms. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispered. “I’m gonna have to sterilize them.” He held up a bottle of whiskey in one hand, in the other rested a ragged towel, old blood staining it. 

He honestly thought his wrists would be fine.  _ Technically  _ they’d been cauterized, the cuffs burning the shit out of any infection in them. Although that could just be his muddled brain talking. 

Dean winced as he scooted away from the radiator, the burns on his back stinging as he moved. His shirt was almost sealed to his back with blood and sweat, leaving smears behind on the metal. 

That’s what happens in a freezing house when you’re connected to the only heat source available.  _ Why are you hoggin’ all the heat for yourself, boy? Think it’s for you? Guess we’ll just have to turn it up, see if we can feel it too. _

He was jolted back to the present as Sam wrapped the alcohol soaked towel around his wrist, pulling it tight. He didn’t quite manage to conceal his wince, his nails digging into his palms to avoid making any other sounds. It was bad enough that Sam had to sit a room over and listen to his muffled sobs for hours; he didn’t want his little brother to feel bad about helping him too. 

Sam did the same for his other wirst, pressing down hard, then brushing gently with the towel. He kept his arms extended as his brother wrapped them with white bandages, securing them with a strand of medical tape. His hands were gentle as they brushed at the hem of Dean’s shirt. 

“We need to get to you to sink. We gotta soak your back a little so we can get the shirt off.” Sam stood slowly, gathering the kit under one arm and offering his other to Dean. He pulled him to his feet sharply, as to not prolong straightening up. The motion drew cry of pain from him, teeth gritted as he swayed.

Sam pulled him closer, draping Dean’s arm across his shoulders as he took the first few steps. Each one sent a sharp jolt of pain up his spine, legs half asleep and cramping from being in the same position for so long, not to mention the colorful bruises all over his body. The kitchen looked miles away, a long span of floorboards separating them.

Somehow, they make it.  _ It’s a goddamn miracle.  _ The pain had only gotten worse the farther they went, until Dean was about to start screaming through his teeth. Sweat dripped down his back, lighting up the burns there in flares. Sam helped him lean forward into the sink, wounds straining as he bends. 

“This is gonna hurt a lot,” Sam warned him. “It’s gonna be hot water and I’ll be pouring more directly onto you.” Dean gave a quick nod, knuckles whitening as he readied himself. The faucet sputtered, water spraying onto his shoulders before the pressure steadied and it started running out faster. 

He still wasn’t prepared for the blinding pain when Sam started to pour a cup onto his back. Dean’s knees almost buckled underneath him, leaving him to clutch desperately as the metal rim of the sink. His brother did it quick and efficiently, knowing he’d prefer it to drawing it out. 

_ Jesus christ, this has gotta hurt more than the whiskey. _ It was the only thought that came clearly as he stood there, fighting to stay on his feet. What couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes felt like hours and his legs shook when Sam finally turned the water off. 

His brother wasted no time, telling him to roll onto his stomach as he cut the shirt off him. Sam only showed him the towel again before using, not bothering with a verbal warning, soaking up the droplets of water and sterilizing it at the same time. 

Dean screamed into the ground, biting his tongue and tasting blood, and squeezed his eyes shut as his vision went white. He lay there panting when Sam pulled away and began gently trying the burns. On the worst ones went taped down gauze squares, the edges secure on his skin. The less severe burns were left alone, disinfectant liberally smeared on them. 

Sam helped him move away from the water that had grouped into a puddle on the floor and went to get him another shirt. He could hear his younger brother moving through the house, each step punctuated with a creak from the floorboards. It didn’t take long for him to return, but Dean was already fighting to keep his head off his chest and eyes open. 

With a little assistance and a lot of wincing, Sam got him into his shirt and helped him back to his feet. They swayed like a pair of drunkards as they made their way back to the radiator. 

They had to cuff Dean back to it, he knew that, or else Dad would be mad. Really, really mad. He hated when Sam interfered with his punishments, sometimes reciprocating them to Sam when Dean had recovered a little more. In a situation like this, where he could have sustained longer lasting damage if left sitting there for another day, John would allow them to help each other. So long as they returned to their spot soon after.

And so, the cuffs were locked around his wrists and his back was against the radiator again. Sam had wiped the blood off it, but that didn’t wash away the smell. He wrinkled his nose as the faint stench of burnt fabric and skin rose around him, before shaking off Sam’s concerned look.

“I’ll be fine. You gotta go clean the guns and restock the ammo,” he mustered up a smile; it felt out of place- _ painted on like a clown’s smile _ -on his face. “Finish before Dad gets home, he’ll be drunker than usual.” Their dad wasn’t a lightweight or anything, but when something didn’t go his way, especially something like this, he practically drowned himself in the stuff. 

“I’ll bring you a sandwich later, okay?” Sam’s face was lined with concern as he backed away, taking the media with him. 

Dean waved his hands at him best he could in a shooing motion, a genuine smile taking form this time. “I already said that I’m good Sammy. Don’t worry about me, I don’t need a nanny.” He smirked as he finished, the mood lifting a little on the room.

His younger brother scowled in the doorway, the light coming back into his eyes, just a little bit. “You can’t just eat  _ whatever _ . It matters; you’d have had a heart attack already if it weren’t for me.” 

He scoffed back, ignoring how the shake of his head stung his back. “Just hurry up and go, I might pass out if I have to look at that face for much longer.” Dean ignored Sam’s indignant ‘hey!’ as he walked away, voice receding from Dean’s earshot.

“This face is about to go clean guns and if you think that’ll stop me from knocking you out, you thought wrong!” Dean chuckled at his brother’s response despite himself, stretching his legs in front of him as he leaned his head back, shifting to get more comfortable on the bare wood floor. 

It was going to be a long night.

———————

The drive ended up only taking four and half, seeing as they stopped once for more coffee and Manuel started driving after that.  _ Honestly Hayes, if you’re gonna drive like we’ve got nowhere to be- _ he’s just hella impatient- _ then I’ll be behind the wheel. _

As they pulled into the lot of the police station, the first thing he noticed was the sheer amount of police cars present. Far more than there usually is at the edge of a small town, sheriff and patrol cars alike. The second was a very angry looking policeman stalking towards them as they pulled up. 

Hayes got out quickly, her badge in one hand, file in the other. Manuel waited a moment, stacking the paper coffee cups and napkins before readying his badge and joining her outside. 

“-appreciate your interest in the matter, but this is not a case that just anybody can be involved in. You feds can’t just roll up here and expect to be able to ask any questions you want, look at the evidence, and go back home.” The officer had his arms crossed and was practically sneering at Hayes, who’d leveled an impressed look and hadn’t even twitched throughout the whole thing.

Manuel stepped forward, hands out in a placating motion. “I think that there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here, you see-” The officer cut him off.

“I don’t think that you’re hearing me. This is not your investigation, it’s a kidnapping and attempted murder we’re lookin’ at, nothing else. Why don’t you get back in your car and go home.” The officer had stepped closer as he was talking, an attempt to stare the two of them down. He had to be somewhere lower on the pecking order at the station or had just clocked in, if he really believed all he was saying. If he wasn’t, well, that made him a jackass. 

The slamming of a door stopped their ‘conversation’, a voice calling across the parking lot. It was the sheriff, who Manuel had called halfway through the trip, to explain to him exactly who they were dealing with. It wasn’t like the police had _no_ _idea_ about John Winchester, they just didn’t know enough.

“Special Agents Hayes and Manuel? Is that you?” The sheriff was an older man, going on mid-fifties, with two daughters in high school. He’d been very concerned when he’d heard of Winchester’s proximity to his town. 

“Yes sir.” Hayes only used respectful terms for officers they hadn’t worked with yet, her ability to make up the most ridiculous nicknames winning over eventually. “Drove straight here after hearing what had happened. Got the report faxed to us and everything.” 

The sheriff joined them, his bald head reflecting the street lamps. It was close to four in the morning, the few early birds just starting to sing. “Officer Collins, why don’t you go back inside. I’ll speak with you later.” Collins stood for a moment before nodding sharply and walking away, shoes stomping on the pavement. 

Manuel offered his hand to the sheriff, shifting the empty cups to his left hand. “We appreciate that. Sorry for such short notice, but we are the officers on his case and every thing we can get about him, we’ll take.” 

The man shook his hand, nodding his understanding, before shaking Hayes’ as well. “I’m happy to help. The faster we bring him in, the better the people of this country are for it. And please, call me Jonathan.” He gestured to the door, turning to go inside. “Follow me.”

Manuel smiled and did as he said, just relieved to be on his feet after so many hours in a cramped car. Hayes passed him the file, pulling out a pen and notepad as they walked, readying for whatever answers they might receive. 

Sheriff Jonathan led to what could only be described as some sort of break room, a table and three chairs-two on one side, the third on the other-and a sofa taking up much of the space. Manuel tossed the cups into a nearby trash can before straightening his jacket and opening the door, a young woman looking up as he stood there. 

Miss Elizabeth G. looked younger than the twenty three years her file said, mostly on account of the hair obscuring part of her face, purple bruises and faint scratches peppering the rest, a Kansas State Police sweater hanging off her shoulders, the sleeves surpassing her hands. 

Officer Manuel stepped inside, taking one of the office’s chairs, Hayes sitting down next to him. He set her file on the table, leaning forward and placing his hands on top of it. He mustered up what felt like a easy, concerned expression, pushing away his own anxiety and worries about the case.

“Hello Miss Elizabeth, we’d like to ask you some questions.”


	3. A Chance in a Million

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The officers throw a lifeline and Dean catches it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo dudes I don't know how long this'll be, probably longer than 10 chapters?
> 
> Also: Thanks to Emma_Lipardi, GrinningJarvey, and Klaatua for chancing it and bookmarking my fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

The AC was on again. It was already far past freezing in the motel room, windows closed to keep out any wind and bugs that may have tried to come in to a- _ slightly _ -more sheltered area. The rattling from the vent sounded as loud as a damn helicopter in the small room, the only other sounds being his dad’s snores and Sam’s soft breaths.

There was no way Dean would be able to fall asleep again, especially not with how much his back was hurting from sleeping on a barely carpeted floor, the blue patterns long since faded from the fabric.  _ Technically _ he chose to sleep there, John had given him a choice. The ground _ or  _ the sidewalk outside. A real hard decision, but one he was prepared to make.

The only upside of the dingy hotel was that it provided a tv in each room, sure they had static and were unreliable, but it was better than nothing. He didn’t make much sound as he rolled upright, discarding his thin blanket on the ground as he crept forward.

With how drunk John had been, there was little chance of him waking up anytime before ten o’clock, it was a miracle he had even been coherent enough to tell them they were leaving, unlock Dean’s cuffs, and drive into town. 

So he wasn’t worried as he turned the tv on, making sure to turn the volume very low as soon as it came on. Luckily for him, the channel was already on the four o’clock news; he didn’t want to risk taking the remote from his dad’s beside table. 

The last time he’d been caught taking the remote after he’d already been punished, he hadn’t been able to stand for three days. 

Dean moved closer to the set, leaning his head in to better hear the news caster, her tinny voice crackly and faint. His heart was pounding in his throat, palms clammy where they rested on his knees.

If she’d told them, if Lizzie had said exactly what he told her to say, the feds could catch on. Send some sort of coded message in the new, something that would help them get away. 

“-police haven’t released many details on the attempted kidnapping and murder of Miss Gabbert, saying only that the suspect is still on the loose and to be considered armed and very dangerous.” The woman’s voice was cool, unchanged with every word she said. 

A blurry black and white photo popped up next to her, clearly some sort of freeze frame from security footage. His dad’s scowling face stared down at him. In the photo, John is wearing a business suit, his hair clean and brushed away from his face. All in sharp contrast to the gun he held in his hand and the murderous look on his face.

Dean zoned back in as the woman began to speak again, evidently preparing to give some different news. He reached for the power button, berating himself for the stupid risk.  _ Can’t hope for shit that only works in movies. Risked dad catching up to tell her a dumb message, a message that didn’t fuckin’ matter.  _

Just as he was about to turn it off, the woman’s next words caught his attention.

“More to the case of Ms. Gabbert has just been given, this time, just a simple message.” The newscaster looked down at her papers and paused for a moment before continuing. “This is directly from the officers on her case: To the hero of the moment, please give us a call at 913-887-5867.” She looked down at her papers, bemused. 

The camera switched to another reporter, who seemed to find the message both confusing and a bit funny. “Well, with that mysterious-“

Dean didn’t wait to hear what else there was to say, he’d gotten what he needed. Snapping out of his shock, he grabbed the stationary from the dresser, a cheap pen rolling beside it, and frantically scribbled down the number before he could forget it. 

It had worked, thank God it had worked. They listened to that woman- _ Lizzie- _ and they’d believed her. They were giving him a way to get help, to explain the situation and escape.

He quietly tore off the page and stuck it in his pocket, the paper crumpling as he stuffed it in. Not that that mattered, he’d be able to read it whether it was torn or stepped on or smeared to hell and back. 

He’d never forget the number. 

Never.

———————

“Do you really think he’ll call?” Agent Manuel was not an optimistic person. He never had been and never had claimed to be. He’d leave that to people like Hayes and his mother, both of whom gently mocked him for his constant pessimistic ness. 

He, along with his partner and two other agents, were now stationed in a semi-permanent office, one adjacent to their boss’. The room itself was meant for conferences, a table in the middle surrounded by chairs, with a coffee machine and napkins off to the side.

Since they’d take over, the walls were now covered in a variety of maps and case files, along with newspaper clippings scattered amongst them. They were a bunch of regular Nancy Drews. They’d even splurged and used  _ red _ tacks, not the plain white ones.

Officers Davis and Miller were two of the best police detectives in the state and had readily volunteered to help with the case, especially as they now had a lead. 

  
  


_ If the said lead had seen the news report by chance and had access to a phone.  _

They hadn’t wanted to chance doing a morning or afternoon report, seeing as there was a bigger chance of John Winchester seeing it and going even deeper underground. They’d had to settle with doing short, one or two minute messages on several news channels, at odd, early or extremely late hours, in only one night. 

Officer Miller leaned back in her chair, curly black hair cascading over the back of it as she nodded. “This kid has lived this long, he’ll be smart enough to check the news for anything about the escape.” 

“If he was even awake by then.” Hayes scowled over at him for his response, a fresh coffee in her hand. 

“He’ll call.” 

And so they waited, staring at the phone that rested in the middle of the table. Staring and staring and staring, as the hours ticked by. When the time had reached nine o’clock, he was about ready to go home. They’d just have to try again or figure out another way to reach him. Another way to track them. 

He wasn’t the only one sharing this sentiment; Davis was practically nodding off in his seat and Hayes looked decidedly bored. 

Manuel was the first to break the silence, standing up and pushing his chair back. He clapped his hands together, drawing their attention. “Alright, well, I’m going to go get some breakfast for us. We’ve got some stale bagels and shitty fruit bowls in the break room, let’s take a break and-”

The phone was ringing.

For a moment they were all frozen, a room of trained officers like deers in headlight, because it had  _ worked _ and the kid found the number and he was calling to help them and get help-

Manuel was the first to react, lunging forward and scooping up the phone, accepting the call and turning it to speaker phone. “Hello?”

_ “Hey. Who is this?” _ The voice that came through the speaker sounded too old for a sixteen year old, serious and cold. Manuel sat down in his chair, setting the phone down on the table again.  _ “You still there? I want to know who I’m talking to.” _

It had been too long of a pause and if Dean hung up, they might not get another chance. “We’re still here, sorry. I’m an officer of the FBI and so is my partner. We’re also working with two police detectives, all from Kansas.” He hoped that with a complete answer, giving more details than he would have liked, would make Dean more willing to trust them.

_ “Lizzie got to you safe, right? That’s how you knew about me?”  _ The boy’s voice sounded hopeful now, as if he was realizing this call, this number, was legitimate, not some interview for the news.

“Ms. Elizabeth is safe and sound. She told us your message, to look for your sign.” Hayes chimed in, leaning forward, an excited glint in her eyes. Hell, they all were. The one in a million risk had checked out and this kid was talking to them, asking questions. 

This time Officer Miller joined in, speaking clearly and calmly, perhaps hoping to temper down the energy rising in the room. “What did you mean by that, exactly? What sign should we be looking for?”

There was a pause before Dean answered, hesitation entering his words.  _ “I figured I’d carve my dad’s initials or my initials at murder...at crime scenes or hotel rooms when I could, hopefully giving you some kind of predictable pattern.” _

Manuel smiled to himself; this phone call arrangement fixed that issue. Dean could give them a call or leave a message about their location and which hotel or house they would stay in, giving chances for the law enforcement in that area to bulk up and ready for John Winchester to stop by. He told Dean that, explaining how the priority was to get him and his brother out and away as soon as possible.

_ “No. The priority is not me and it’s not my brother. It’s his victims. You gotta focus on stopping him, not rescuing us.”  _ There was hard certainty in Dean’s voice, allowing no argument. 

And still they tried. “Look, son,” said Officer Davis, his age showing in his words. “You and your brother are kids. We are trying to stop your father and save as many people as we can, but we won’t do that if it puts you two at risk.” 

Davis would have gone on, and Hayes would have joined him by the looks of it, but Dean cut him off before he could.  _ “Still wrong. We’re not kids and we can hold our own. He won’t kill us unless he absolutely has to, but he will kill a helluva lot more helpless people if you don’t stop him. Prioritize that.” _

Manuel stepped in, he didn’t need his partner to start arguing with Dean, they didn’t have the time for that. “We’ll do our best to get both of those done, saving you and stopping him.”

The sigh from the other line showed that Dean was hardly satisfied, but he didn’t push it.  _ “I have to go, I can’t take too long getting breakfast, it’ll get suspicious. I’m calling you on a pay phone behind a diner; the number will be different next time I contact you. I’ll tell Sam about calling and leaving messages, in case I can’t come to the phone. Let you know when we move again.” _

A dial tone sounded, Manuel reaching forward to silence it and end the call. “That went better than I thought it would go, at least,” he offered weakly. “Let’s take a break, there’s nothing to do but wait anyways.” 

He tried not to think about what,  _ exactly,  _ would stop Dean Winchester from coming to the phone. He tried not to think about how he said they weren’t kids, how they could hold their own.

He tried. He failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was a good read :D
> 
> Lemme know what you thought and/or mistakes you noticed. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Panic For Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the story!

Apparently, John hadn’t been as drunk as he’d thought. He was awake by the time Dean got back, dressed and glaring at the map on the table like it had offended him. He only grunted when Dean explained he’d been out getting breakfast and ignored the sandwich placed beside him.

Sam was sitting on one of the beds, their duffel bags packed beside him. He hadn’t said a word when Dean came back, but a red slap mark on his cheek was a testament to his silence. 

They ate their food in that silence, trying desperately to block the waves of anger and frustration that rolled off of John. Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes either, keeping his gaze firmly trained on the food before him. Even when Dean nudged him, he wouldn’t look up. 

_Something was wrong. Something happened._

That something wasn’t broached until they were wiping down the hotel room, cleaning fingerprints from door knobs and faucets. Their bags were now piled by the door, John standing next to them as he watched them work. 

“You took your time getting breakfast.” His father’s voice was contemplative as he eyed Dean. The suspicion in his face belated any tone of voice he might have had.

“There were a few people in front of me in line at the diner and the orders were coming slow.” He tried his best to sound nonchalant as he spoke. From the look on Sam’s face, he didn’t quite pull it off. “Musta’ been a new cook or something.”

“You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.” The glare now taking over John’s face could’ve killed someone if they walked in front of it. Burned their skin right off their bones.

Even if it didn’t really do that, there was still a chance he’d actually kill Dean, especially if he found out what he’d been doing. 

“You were calling someone, weren’t you?” 

He went to continue denying, because if you don’t ever admit something or let it slip, it can’t be pinned on you, right? Right. Because that’s always true and you should definitely never do anything but that, especially in situations like this.

“There’s a payphone by the diner you went to.” That was the tipping point. It’s not like he was actually considering denying it until his dying breath, at least, he wasn’t seriously considering. 

Masking the truth with a lie was different, though. That was something he was very, _very_ good at, something his father sometimes depended on. 

Dean was very good at masks nowadays. He could flirt his way into anywhere, with _anyone,_ get answers out of anyone with a few sympathetic smiles, and convince douchebags to get the _fuck_ out of his way with a glare. The mask he put on now was none of these.

You know that customary, guilty teenager look? When they try to deny something, try to say that they were _definitely not making out behind the school_ and _those aren’t my cigarettes, what are you talking about?_ It’s not that hard to fake.

Dean sighed, bringing one hand to rub across the back of his neck. He didn’t meet his dad’s eyes as he spoke, instead fiddling with the hem of his shirt, as if the string hanging off it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Yeah, I called someone. It wasn’t important, I swear!”

“Who was it?” His father's voice was calm, like a sea before a storm. 

In the panicked downward spiral of his mind, only one though gets out. _Heh. Calm, like the sea before a storm. Shoulda’ used that shit in poetry class._ It’s not a very helpful thought. 

“Look, it wasn’t very important, not anyone who matters, so Dad, can you please just drop it-”

“It was that girl, wasn’t it?” 

“Wha-?” _Also not a very helpful response._

“The girl, from Nebraska.” There’s a smug sound in his voice that Dean’s never heard before. Almost _fatherly._ “You do realize you’re never seeing her again, right?”

Oh, thank God and all the angels above. He doesn’t know.

“I...yeah, I know. I kinda just wanted to say goodbye.” He pastes a grin on his face as he says this, instantly knocking it down a couple notches when it feels too plastic. “Couldn’t leave her hanging, could I?”

John chuckles, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he does. “Atta’ boy! You really are my son.” He sounds just like every dad in every dumbass show about a suburban family and their dysfunctional teenagers. Then, his entire demeanor changed, shifting from proud father to drill sargent, hand tightening on Dean’s shoulder until his skin twisted and burned beneath it. “Don’t ever take a risk like that again.”

“Yes sir.” 

The moment passes and John steps away, looking past Dean like he’s not even there. A quick scan of the rooms proved that nothing was out of place, beds rumpled- _like most people leave it, sleeping under the covers in pajamas_ -and lamps turned off, every surface possible wiped down.

They never touched much as a rule, keeping fingerprints at a bare minimum, but it never hurt to be too careful. If John was less careful they’d have found him a long time ago. 

Sam and Dean piled into the Impala, careful filling the trunk and backseat with the few bags they carried. Carefully, as to not damage or set off any of the weapons racked in the car. 

His father always drove the Jeep in front, leading the way to whatever town they were going to, whatever hellhole they’d live in next. John had never told them this, but Dean had a feeling he drove up front, alone, for convenience. If a police car is chasing them, would they pull over the Jeep half a mile ahead or the closest car out of the two?

Besides, John knew he wouldn’t pull any risky things with Sam in the car with him. Even if it was important enough to risk his treasured Impala, it was never important enough to put Sam’s life on the line. 

And so, that was how they found themselves heading down an abandoned highway, Dean’s knuckles white around the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking. After all, it isn’t everyday that your psychopathic, serial killer of a father _almost_ finds out that you were feeding the FBI information about your whereabouts. 

Sam, on the other hand, knew Dean had definitely not been calling a girl. He always warned him when he did, in case the call took too long and Sam got worried or if Dad got antsy and wanted to leave sooner than planned.

He had a question on the tip of his tongue, the way he kept glancing at Dean before inhaling. That always ended with another glance and a slow exhale until Sam slumped back into his seat. At least, until thirty seconds later when he decided (and chickened out of it) to ask again. 

A man could only take the stress for so long, eventually, you snap. 

“What?” The question came out harsher than Dean had meant it to, his younger brother tensing and snapping upright when he spoke. Dean sighed, trying again in a softer tone. “Your question. What was it?” 

When one says softer, one should consider that if your younger brother _almost asked you a question for five minutes_ you wouldn’t be that soft.

“Who were you calling?” Sam’s voice is steady, a play at unconcerned. His hands, though, those give him away. They twist in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling.

“Like Dad said, that girl from a few states ago.”

Sam twisted to glare at him, eyes cutting through the hair hanging into his face. _God, he needs a haircut._ Idly, Dean wonders where he last put that pair of scissors, he could have _sworn_ that they were in his bag but they hadn’t been-

“You probably don’t even remember what state Dad guessed she was from,” Sam scoffed. “Who’d you really call? I can tell if you lie to me.”

It’s not like there really was a reason to stall. After all, if Sam ever needed to call or if they ever, by some stroke of luck, had a good enough position and backup to get out and get John in chains, Sam would want to know how, exactly, it all played out.

After all, those who could resist Sam’s puppy dog eyes were cruel and heartless people. Not that he was using them now, no, he was frustrated and suspicious, but he’d break them out eventually. 

“It wasn’t a girl,” He conceded. “Although it does have something to do with one.”

Sam went to argue again, eyes flashing as he leaned forward, but a raised hand from the steering wheel forestalled him. 

“Dad’s hardly two hundred meters ahead. React smaller, he’ll think something is wrong,” Dean said, his lips moving at the bare minimum, facing straight ahead, expression carefully neutral. “It has something to do with a girl. Lizzie.”

“Lizzie?” The confusion in his brother's voice reminded him that they hadn’t talked much about what really happened in the woods, just a couple, short days ago.

“Elizabeth G, apparently. The news report I saw this morning didn’t have much information. It had a phone number though.” Dean kept his eyes carefully trained on the road, turning left as John did, exchanging a nod through the window. He waited a few minutes before continuing. “Seems like she got to the cops after I gave her my gun, and in turn, the cops went to the FBI.”

The quiet, hopeful gasp beside him said it all. 

“Are you gonna get us out?”

_Are_ you _gonna get us out?_ Not the police, not the people working with the law, but him. Dean. The faith Sam placed in him was undeserved, unearned, useless on all accounts. That didn’t stop him from feeling a little proud of himself. 

“Yeah.” He swallowed before continuing. “Yeah, I’m gonna get you out.”

Dean rode that wave of hope and pride until they got to their destination, until the waves were just eddies, frothing around his ankles as he got out of the car.

Another abandoned house, at the rope of a hill. One dirt road, leading a mile up through sharp twists and turns, before stopping at the near top. A mile away from any other cars, any other chances of contact. 

The cliché didn’t stop there of course. When the dirt road meets a rarely used gravel one, scraggly grass interspersed with equally scraggly trees turns too- _are you ready folks? It’s like a shitty Hollywood movie!_ -thick forest and trailing ivy, leaving no quick exit from the long, empty road.

Probably the worst place in the world for a car chase scene in the Shitty Hollywood Movie. Or the best, depending on how much drawn out tension you want people to feel. 

John wastes no time, stalking over to Dean and slamming a fifty dollar bill into his hand. He couldn’t tell if Dad was in a really bad mood or a scarily good one. 

“Get a couple days of food. We won’t be staying longer than that.” The orders rattled off, a no-nonsense tone coming into John’s already gruff voice. 

“Yes sir. Anything in particular?” Sometimes their dad had requests, ranging from a certain sandwich to more gasoline and gunpowder. He liked to be prepared. 

“Yeah,” John says, a grin growing on his face. _So a scarily good one, then._ “Keep an eye out for anyone. I don’t want our time to go to waste.”

It was a well practiced mask that slipped over Dean’s face as he nodded, not bothering with agreeing verbally. He slipped back into the Impala, tossing the two bags in the back out for Sam. Though he avoided leaving Sam alone at all costs- _there had been times where he returned and Sam was nowhere to be found, Dad refusing to tell him where he was. When the hours had passed and he finally found him, closet and broken arm, cabinet and black eye, he didn’t leave his side_ -there was no getting out of this.

John wanted another target. Another girl, another kill to count and write down. 

It took him less than twenty minutes, time that was agonizingly slow as he drove under the speed limit; now was not a time to get pulled over. He pulled into the parking lot behind a laundromat, the payphone at the corner vacant. 

It took all of ten second to run over and dial the number, the call picking up at the first ring. 

_“Hello?”_ The woman’s voice was friendly and calm, he vaguely recognized her from the last call. What had only been this morning now felt days ago, months ago.

“There’s no time to explain. I have to be fast. I’ve got a location and he wants me to find him another victim.” He rattled off the town’s name and address for the house. He hoped that the pure panic in his voice conveyed exactly how urgent this was, how urgent it was that John didn't have another victim. 

_Not one more._

The agents took it remarkably well, throwing together a plan and estimation of forces. They already knew who to contact, what favors to call in. Guess if you’ve got hours of downtime between updates, you get a lot of shit done.

“Whatever happens, I’ll get Sam and the girl out safely. Make sure they stay that way, _safe._ ” He hoped they wouldn’t argue, and they didn’t, but one did have something to say before the call ended.

_“Dean.”_ It was the one who seemed more in charge, Agent Manuel. _“Don’t forget about yourself.”_

He scoffed into the phone, fingers already on the numbers, ready to dial again. “Just make sure, whatever you do, no later than the day after tomorrow. I’ll find a way to call.” 

Dean hung up before they could say anything, another number already being punched in. “Sir?” His eyes wandered to a young woman, sitting on a bench in the park across the street in the fading light, not even a hundred meters away. “I found someone.”

———————

After four hours of frantic phone calls and shouting matches, plans had been laid out, The people up top had been notified and the people underneath them were on the move. 

A curfew was put in place in the small town the Winchesters were currently in, as forces piled into sheriff offices and debrief rooms. The local police had been notified and were watching the only ways out of the area, the FBI providing men where needed. 

What Hayes fondly called the “Coffee Addicts Anonymous” room was covered in various files, lists, and maps, random wrappers scattered among the debris. Phones with burnt out batteries from half a day of calls rested on a nearby table, empty coffee cups- _as always-_ next to them.

Officers Davis and Miller were heading to their respective precedents, ready for a nice long nap, in their own bed and not a motel’s. What had only been a couple days felt like a week, the sleepless nights getting to all of them.

Hayes and him, on the other hand, were getting ready to go to the rescue site. A superior had recommended them for the transfer, saying that if anyone were needed to calm either boy down, it should be officers they’d already spoken to.

That was how Manuel found himself, yet again, sitting in the passenger seat next to Hayes, some country song she liked playing on the radio. The difference, this time, was that if they didn’t get there in time, if John Winchester was more suspicious than usual, there were three lives on the line. 

Sam, Dean, and whatever helpless victim he had.

He could only pray the extraction went off without a hitch, or he’d have regrets till his dying day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Lemme know if there were any gaps, errors, or grammar mistakes that you saw!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments :)
> 
> Stay safe and healthy!


	5. Baby Driver 2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, hope you're doing good.
> 
> Quick heads up, some tense moments in this chapter, As in: when I was sitting here writing this five minutes ago, I could *feel* the anxiety.
> 
> Also: that chapter title? Any of you seen the movie Baby Driver? I haven't, just seen a few scenes. If you're feeling up to it and you want to see the best car chase of your life, look up the opening scene on youtube. Fucking amazing.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the story!

The girl’s name was Donna Miller. She was eighteen years old, five feet and three inches, and weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. That’s what it said on her license, that was the name on receipts in her wallet and the track team hoodie that she wore.

That was the name Dean promised himself he wouldn’t forget, no matter what happened, as he drove back to the house, John in front in his Jeep and the girl in the back, in his baby’s trunk. 

It hadn’t taken much to get her inside, surprisingly. All Dean had to do was saunter up to her, his best “ _ hey, sorry, I’m lost and you’re kinda hot, can you help me? _ ” smile on his face. A quick conversation had her distracted enough for John to come up from behind, grab her into a chokehold- _ it’s unbreakable, he would know, he’d tried _ -and squeeze, until she went limp and her eyes closed.

D onna Miller’s bag currently sat next to him, in the passenger seat of his car. He’d done a quick search, just enough to figure out who she was; John would want to know as soon as they arrived. 

He could only hope that she woke up quickly, that she wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. Nothing made his dad angrier than someone who put up a real fight.

It was silent as they rolled to a stop in front of the house; he could see Sam silhouetted at the doorway, one hand on the frame. John had already gotten out of his car and was storming towards the house, Sam scrambling back inside. 

They had a routine. Dean distracts the target, if needed, so that his dad could subdue and restrain them. They would put the girl in the Impala’s trunk, hands bound and mouth gagged, before driving to whatever remote place they were staying in.

It was never much of a drive; John never wanted to risk driving for more than a few miles with someone in the trunk. 

Dean was left to get the girl inside, her bag slung over his shoulder as he opened the trunk and leaned forward, not giving the girl time to fight or yell as he scooped her out and set her on her feet, mindful of the hands bound behind her back.

Donna looked like she was a fighter, her shoulders tense as Dean steadied her. He was willing to bet she wouldn’t hesitate to slam him to the ground and take off, restainments be damned.

That was why, when she drove her head backwards, meaning to knock him in the face- _ blind him, eyes watering, a very good move- _ he saw it coming and stepped back with her, her eyes widening in shock as she hit nothing and stumbled. 

Before John could notice, and he would if Dean wasn’t careful, he gripped her arms a little tighter as he marched them forward, heading leaning in to speak in her ear.

“Don’t fight him, don’t resist him,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll hurt you and then he’ll kill you. It won’t be fast.” Dean paused as they walked up the stairs, making sure John was well inside the house. “Let me and my brother help. You can trust us.”

Although she couldn’t speak, he got the general message of “ _ Trust you? Like I did at the park?” _ and whispered again in her ear. 

“I’m sorry. It had to be someone. You looked strong.” That, of course, hadn’t been all his reasoning, but it did affect his choice. If they were going to survive the night, the girl they caught had to be able to keep up.

It wasn’t like he’d leave her to John’s mercy if there was a chance to break away, but you can’t be slow if you’re running for your life.

Sam was nowhere to be seen when they got inside, the few doors leading deeper into the small house closed shut. His dad, on the other hand, was standing in the corner of the room, leaning over his journal, an old, leather bound thing he’d had since they’d first left Lawrence.

The main room was almost bare, the only furnishings being a rickety table and a chair to match. The cracking wallpaper and dirt in every corner didn’t exactly count as decorations.

Dean stood silently, shoulders squared and grip tight, the girl slightly in front of him. He was impressed: most victims were crying and begging, at least whimpering, when reality started to set in. This one though- _ thank the lucky stars and four leaf clovers and the fucking angels in the clouds that he’d chosen her _ -was barely moving. The only tell was a tremor, very small, running through her entire body as she fought to stay as still as Dean.

John didn’t look up for a few moments, his pen scratching out the last notes onto the page, uncaring of anything but the task before him. He always did this, took notes and newspaper clippings and put them in the journal, before and after each kill. 

Sam and Dean had never read what he’d written. He kept the little book under close watch, never explaining what it was for. 

When he finally did look up, John gave the girl a cursory once over, taking a few steps closer as he did. From the corner of his eye, Dean could see his little brother opening one of the doors into the room, standing unobtrusively in the shadows.

“Search her,” said John, arms crossed over his chest. Dean had been in charge of this since he was around nine; the few times he missed something had resulted in punishment. And not the  _ no dessert for a week _ kind of punishment.

Quickly, he twisted one of the girl’s arms behind her back, the other hand running down her front and across her pockets. He tried to go as fast as possible, fingers brushing lightly wherever they touched. 

Her jacket was fine, he left it unzipped and hanging loosely off her shoulders. The front pockets of her jeans were empty too, not that they could hold anything but a fucking penny with the size that they were. 

In her back pocket, however, therein lay the problem. A phone. This girl had managed, with her baggy, too-long-for-her-arms hoodie, to conceal her phone when John grabbed her and put her in the trunk, managed to get all the way to here without it getting spotted.

Dean paused, only for a second, hand hovering over the phone, eyes glancing to Sam, still standing on the side. It took Sam less than a second to read his face, read the alarmed pause and questioning look, before he stepped back and swung the door shut. Hard.

It only cost John a glance, eyes leaving the pair for a moment, giving Dean an opportunity to scoop the phone from her pocket and slide it into his, his search continuing quickly to her shoes and back up again, before he stood straight and met John’s eyes.

“No identification on her, but there was a wallet in her bag. Nothing more besides some papers and a protein bar.” His voice, thankfully, held steady and sure. Just as emotionless as he always was during this. “No phone, no way of communication.”

“No way of calling for help,” finished John, a smile growing on his face. He stepped closer to the two of them, practically leering at Donna, arms crossed over his chest. 

To her credit, she stood stock still, knees locked and eyes defiant. She’d only flinched at the slam of the door, her head half turning to Sam, then glancing down at Dean when he stood. Her bravery did nothing to dissuade John from her, his father stepping even closer, hand coming up to the girl’s face.

The look in his dad’s eyes made Dean’s heart turn to stone and drop to his feet, leaving him feeling like he’d fallen off the side of a building and was waiting for the rest of his body to catch up. 

The backhand was so fast, he almost missed it. It sent Donna spinning, falling out of his grip in his shock, her bound hands unable to stop her fall. A vicious kick followed, the girl curling in on herself as she struggled to breathe around the gag. 

John stepped back, readying for another kick, when a door slammed open, someone running out and flinging themself in front of Donna, arms flung out wide. 

Sam.  _ Goddamn it.  _

“Stop!” His brother’s cry was loud and desperate, chest heaving where he stood. “Please Dad, stop.” 

Don’t you just hate it when your brother places himself right in the crosshairs of your psychotic father? Really inconvenient. 

“Excuse me?” John’s voice sounds more incredulous than annoyed, at least for now. His dad had a short fuse, and if you lit it you had to be ready for the explosion. 

Dean quickly moved in front of Sam, a carefully crafted smirk on his face, hiding the twisting fear he felt in his stomach. “Look,  _ sir, _ ” he threw every ounce of sarcasm he had into that word. “There’s better ways to go about this. You kill her now, who’s to say we can find another just as easily here? Who’s to say you’ll be able to find anyone?” He took a quick breath, steeling himself for his next words. “Do you really want to fill up that fucking journal that quickly?”

The journal, the fucking leather journal, was a no-go subject. You never bring it up, you never look into it, you never ask John what he’s writing. And by talking about, he just shut the door of the bomb bunker, locking himself outside.

Ready for the explosion.

The draw of attention worked; John’s thoughts and fists would be focussed on him now. “Sam, go down to the basement and secure her. Bring the bag with you.” His father’s eyes didn’t leave his for a moment, a sick sort of satisfaction welling up in his stomach. 

Sam straightened up, one hand on Donna’s shoulder, pulling her with him. An arm was wrapped around her back, the other dangling at his side. Sam cleared them out quickly, brushing against Dean as he made a beeline for the door. 

Brushing against him and not pausing or slipping up for a moment, the weight from his pocket moving on once again. 

As their footsteps faded, becoming even more muffled when Sam shut the door behind them, John moved closer, until he was less than a foot away, towering over Dean. 

“You really think you can talk to me like that? Talk to your father, like that?” John’s voice was practically a growl, low and dangerous. “Think you can get away with anything?”

A fist swung out of nowhere, cracking against Dean’s cheek and sending him spinning to the floor. A boot to the chest, the leg, the face, followed in quick succession, his vision going white for a few seconds as his head slammed into the floorboards. 

He felt John’s iron grip on his arm, heaving him to his feet. His dad was shouting, yelling and swinging at the same time, blows so fast Dean could hardly react as he tried in vain to dodge them. 

It didn’t take long until he was on the ground again, curled in on himself, hands wrapped around his head in an attempt to protect it. Eye barely open, he watched with a certain detachedness as John slammed a boot into his ribs, stomping and grinding his heel in, his voice now a blur in the background.

Dean was almost happy when he passed out.

———————

It didn’t last long.

He could feel himself behind pulled, his body bumping unevenly as he descended. A hand around his ankles kept him moving, legs suspended in the air. 

_ They were going down...stairs? Why does my head hurt so much?  _ He could barely get a coherent thought out, let alone hold onto it. His arms scraped against the walls, hand knocking into something hard and cold.  _ Ouch. _

The stop was sudden, one moment he felt the change from wood to concrete, from stairs to floor. Then his legs fell to the ground, bones aching as they hit the hard surface, a groan rising in his chest.

The silence that followed was a relief. Faintly, a door slammed shut, somewhere way up above him- _ am I in a fucking hole? _ -the smell of dirt and mildew slowly seeping into his nose.  _ A fucking hole, I knew it. _

Hands were on his arms, his wrists, carefully pulling him across the ground before lowering him down again. The hands moved to his face, turning it this way and that, a light shining through his eyelids. 

Out was only on account of the gentleness that he dared to crack an eye open. Sam’s face, his hair falling into it, loomed over him, eyes damp and red rimmed. Almost like he’d been crying. 

_ Not a hole, then. _

“-hear me? Dean, you gotta say something.” Sam’s voice, just above a whisper, was soft and scared. A thump pressed into his eyelid, carefully opening it more. He tried to bat it away as the light glared from behind. 

“I’m fine, don’ worry bout me,” he said, words coming out more slurred than he’d planned. He coughed and cleared his throat, eyes watering as he tried to focus on Sam. “I’m okay. Can you turn off that light?” 

His brother nodded, turning and murmuring to someone before the light switched off, the area cast into darkness as he struggled to adjust. Dean watched as Sam sat back, hands resting on his knees in an obvious attempt to not reach out to him.

A faint headache was forming in the back of his head, pounding to the beat of his heart. The ground was rough as he forced his hands beneath him, lurching to the side as he fought his way to a sitting position. A hand quickly appeared on his back, steadying him as he moved. 

Dean turned, preparing to tell Sam to let go, that he was fine, a bit of tough reassurance. Only to pause at the face that looked back at him. He blinked, brain moving at the speed of molasses as he tried to place them. 

“...Donna?” It came out weaker than he’d meant it to. 

“Yeah.” Sam had, at some point, removed the gag. “Thanks for what you did up there.” One of her eyes was swelling, a bruise forming on her cheekbone on account of the backhand. He flapped his hand in dismissal, head slowly shaking as he tried to speak.

His tongue felt like it was a lead weight and his mouth was made of cotton. “Not a problem, jus’ needed to ge’ you away from him. Out of the room.”

It was like being hit by a lighting bolt, his eye snapping wide, lurching forward, hand clamping around Sam’s wrist. 

“The phone, you’ve got the phone?” The words tumbled out of his mouth, bunching together in his haste. It was Donna who answered, moving slowly and clearly, hand reaching into her back pocket. 

Like he was a fucking deer, primed to be spooked. And maybe, just maybe, in a way, he was. But not a fawn or something, a really skittish, kinda strong stag. Yeah, that sounded good.

He zoned back in, mind coming back to the present as the phone was tapped gently against his leg, the cool metal snapping him out of it.

With clumsy hands, he dialed the number as best he could, only missing a couple numbers and fixing it as he did. Apparently, these couple numbers were too many; the phone was being gently pried from his grasp, Sam’s hands unfolding his clenched ones.

“Let me call.” His brother’s voice was calm, a steady thing in the shaking of the world around him. Or maybe it was just him who was shaking.

“Why?” The tone was sharper than usual, enunciated by the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was perfectly capable of making a phone call. Besides, it was his job,  _ his  _ job, to make sure Sam and Donna got out. To make sure the help outside knew what to do.

“You’ve likely got a concussion and I want the call to be as quick and clear as possible,” Sam whispered, gaze soft as he stared back at him. “Just tell me what to say.”

Dean didn’t try to stop him when he pressed call, the volume down so low they could barely hear it. It had hardly rung once before it was answered, a low voice coming through the speakers. 

_ “Are you ready?”  _

He mouthed half an hour at Sam, not trusting his control over his voice, letting Sam answer for him. As long as it went fast, as long as it worked. The was a confused pause after Sam spoke, likely a little surprised to hear someone else’s voice. 

_ “Who is this?” _

“Sam. His brother.” 

_ “Is he alright?”  _ The urgency of the speaker’s tone- _ Hayes, he noted idly _ -spoke volumes, concern bleeding into her voice. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown on them.

“We think he’s got a concussion, he's awake, just a little slower than usual.” There was a hint of laughter in Sam’s words as he spoke, a faint smile growing on his face at his own joke. 

_ It wasn’t even that funny. Come on man, if you're gonna mock me for being slow, at least be creative with how you do it. _

“Just be ready in half an hour.” He’d missed something, Sam ending the call and turning the phone off as he finished. The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound being their breaths. 

“Who was that?” There was hope in Donna’s whisper, her eyes flitting between the two of them and the phone. 

Dean groaned as he sat straighter, the muscles around his ribs burning as he moved. “That was our escape plan, the FB fucking I.” He grinned, tasting blood as he likely split his lip again. “That was the golden fucking ticket and you, Miss Donna, are the lucky winner. You picked the right chocolate bar after all.” His laugh sounded hysterical, even to his own ears.

Donna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his references. They were brilliant, she just had no taste. “Sounded less like a plan and more like a vague time frame.” The sarcasm was there, it just wasn’t the mean sort of sarcasm. More like the tell-me-the-plan-already-or-I’ll-scream. 

It took less than twenty minutes to lay it all out.

The stress, however, made it feel like hours. The phone was used to keep time and Dean was counting down the minutes, a twisting in his stomach forming, likely from all the waiting. It wasn’t impatience, though. It was fear.

If the agents accidentally opened fire on them, dead. If the car crashed, dead. If John caught them, worse than dead. 

He’d make sure they weren’t caught, at least Sam and Donna, if it was the last thing he did.

Dean held onto the surety, using it to steady him as they now sat, silence weighing thick around them. They were listening, heads cocked, huddled at the foot of the stairs, for the sound of footsteps. Of anything, anything at all, to tell them where John was. 

Then, a creak. A thump of something getting tossed down, the squeaking of a chair as someone rose from it. They stayed stock still, scared to even breathe too loud. This was their one chance. They had to make it.

A stroke of luck sounded, ringing in Dean’s ears as John’s footsteps sounded, the stomp and scrape slowly- _ so slowly _ -moving away from them, his dad likely going to the bathroom, the human finally triumphing over the killer.

Dean held up a hands, fingers slowly counting down from five as they listened to the sound fade. At one they began to creep up the stairs, on all fours. It was quicker and safer than trying to creak their way up on two feet.

Donna’s bag was left behind, her phone, pocketed. They had decided it would be unnecessary to bring baggage and it all could be replaced. The wisdom was seen now, as the rickety stair shifted with each moved, even an ounce of weight on the wrong part threatening to give them away.

They were almost to the top. So close, the doorknob turned under Dean’s fingers, as they crept upwards and grouped together, preparing for the run to the cars.

So close, when a board gave a frightened loud creak before crumbling, nearly taking Donna down with it. It seemed to hit everything on the short drop to the concrete, clattering loudly as it landed.

The game was up.

Dean flung the door open, not caring as it hit the other wall, already pelting to the front door, Sam and Donna close on his heels. There was a shout behind them, another door crashing open, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t, because if they paused, even for a second, it all could be lost. 

The sprint to the Impala was the longest thing in the world, the dirt road stretching out before them. He could hear John pounding after them, angry shouts and cursing, his voice piercing through the haze of adrenaline they were likely all running on. 

He pulled open the car door as fast he could, practically flinging himself inside, the car rocking as Donna and Sam scrambled in. He slammed it into reverse, swerving as he turned them around, foot pressing the gas to the floor. 

John was in his Jeep by the time they were moving, not needing to flip it into reverse as he bore down on them. 

Everything else became secondary, became a distraction, as Dean shot the car forward, engine roaring as they sped down the road. They hadn’t bothered with seatbelts, Sam and Donna clinging to each other and the seats in front of them, Dean ignoring the creaking of his ribs as he slammed against the door. 

The Impala handled the sharp twists and turns better than the Jeep, tires squealing as they went faster and faster. The gravel road was coming up, less than fifty meters away, trees thickening the farther they went. 

There would be no way to turn off the road once they got on it, blocked in as they would be by the forest. That didn’t matter, didn’t matter at all, as they swung onto the gravel, tires skidding.

It didn’t matter, because on each end of the road was a huge police blockade, rows of cop cars and vans blocking any exit, armed men with guns raised towards them. 

They were free, for one glorious moment they were rescued and safe, they were going to be okay. Dean felt hope and happiness swelling in his chest as he looked down the road.

Then the Jeep slammed into the side of the Impala, John not bothering to turn his car as he rammed straight into them and sent both vehicles slamming into the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we doing? Hopefully a little stressed, but not too stressed. It'll be okay. 
> 
> I think.
> 
> Lemme me know what you thought in the comments! 
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!


	6. Hundred Meter Dash (3rd Place)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I know y’all probably didn’t expect such a quick update...I didn’t either. But hey, I had very little things to do today do I went “fuck it” and just sat down for a few hours straight and wrote it. Also: your comments may have encouraged me to publish it so quickly. I was planning on adding it in a week but....
> 
> I too would want to murder (in a good way) the author if they left me at that last cliffhanger.
> 
> So, my friends, here is the next chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Everything hurt. 

His head, after getting slammed into the steering wheel, after getting slammed into the ground, after getting kicked by a pair of combat boots, was not cooperating. Dean’s vision was blurry, the shattered glass of the windshield fading in and out of focus. 

It was like he was surrounded by a dense fog, one he couldn’t think to get out of. There was something, something he was supposed to do, supposed to remember. He glared at his bloodied and scraped hands, knuckles white on the wheel, willing himself to _think_. 

A groan sounded behind him, the rustling of clothes and crunches of glass echoing like they’re underwater. 

Like _they’re_ underwater. 

Reality crashed back in, making him bolt upright from his slumped position, scrambling to get out of the car. His own door, on the driver’s side, was crumpled, likely unable to open. The passenger’s side was less damaged, having rebounded off of tree trunks, not rammed by a fuckton of metal.

Dean forced himself to move, bracing himself with his arms as he scooted towards the exit, his right leg lighting up with pain, feeling like someone was grinding razors into his calf. 

_Scooted. Ha._

He told the delirious voice in the back of his head to shut up. 

The door swung open with a push, half hanging off the car, creaking in a decidedly dangerous way. Dean wasted no time pulling himself out, a hand clenching the door frame as he spun to the back seat, the shattered window allowing him to lean inside.

Donna was a little better off than Sam, she’d been on the passenger side and so although she did hit the trees, it wasn’t the initial impact of the Jeep. She was half upright, blood sliding down her temple, her arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Donna’s eyes were half closed but fluttering. 

Sam, on the other hand, was slumped completely against her, out cold. Blood trickled out of a nostril, more blossoming on various parts of his body, likely from the glass of the window breaking. 

“Sam? Donna?” The names didn’t make it out of his mouth, lips refusing to obey his commands. He tried again, a little louder. “Sam! Donna! You gotta wake up!” 

As he said this, he pried the door open, swaying dangerously as he requilished his hold on the roof for a moment. At his words and the jostling of the car, Donna appeared to wake up a bit, eyes opening fully as she moaned, one hand going to her clearly broken arm.

“Donna, come on, you have to get out of the car.” He hated how pleading his voice sounded, the fear bleeding in as Sam refused to stir. He couldn't reach Sam if she was still in there and there was no way in _hell_ he was going around the other side. 

_Hey dad, if you could just, you know, move your car a little bit? Yeah, the one you tried to kill us with. That would be great, thanks!_

The girl stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly, once, twice. The fog from her eyes began to clear, a faint nod answering him. She swung her legs out the door, one arm pressed to her chest, the other propping Sam up as she moved. 

Dean thrust out his hand, hauling her to her feet, placing her hand on the spot where his had been, making sure she had her balance before letting go and stooping down for Sam.

They’d have to do this quick, he knew there wasn’t much time.

As if on cue from his hurried thoughts, there was a clang from the Jeep, John shifting in the crumpled confines of his seat; he had likely kicked the door in an attempt to get out. 

Dean hardly spared a glance for John, only getting a glimpse of an enraged and bloodied face, before he was pulling Sam out of the Impala, hands under his armpits, a belated attempt to steady him. The gravel crunched as he set Sam on it, lowering his head gently- _one head wound out of the two of them was enough_ -one hand cupping his neck.

“Sam? Sammy?” He gently smacked his cheek, jostling his brother's shoulders a little bit. The was another clang from behind, louder this time. A grunt accompanied it. _Shit._ “Sammy, come on, we’ve got to get going.”

This time he responded, head tilting from side to side, like he was protesting the presence of life itself. “...it hurts.” Sam’s voice was faint, cracking a little at the end, as most voices do at his age.

“I know, I know Sam. You have to get up.” Dean tried to force a little courage into his voice, a little light. All he felt was the cold vice of fear, adrenaline likely being the only thing keeping him moving. “Let’s go, up you come.”

He heaved Sam upright, an arm under his shoulders, his brother’s legs bucking twice before they held him. The tiredness seemed to seep away as Sam took in the two cars and the driver in the Jeep.

“It’s Dad.” His voice sounded terrified, shaky and wispy. 

“I know, it’ll be okay.” Dean wasn't even sure what he was reassuring, what would be okay. Maybe it was because their dad tried to kill them, actually tried to _kill them_ , and sure, they’d known it was a possibility, known he could and would snap if they stood in his way, but reality had never really sunk in ( _it’ll be okay_ ). Maybe because they’d just done the thing they’d dreamed of for years and now had a final sprint to rescue, if they could live that long ( _it’ll be okay_ ).There were endless possibilities. 

A hand slapped at his arm; Sam was staring at the Jeep, staring through the shattered windshield. “No, Dean. He’s awake.”

He looked up. 

Having a shotgun pointed straight at your head really does things for your heart, doesn’t it?

Grabbing each of them with one arm, Dean pulled Sam and Donna to the ground, crashing them to their knees. The blast sounded above their heads, a spray of bullets peppering the trees where they’d just been. 

In an instant, Dean was scrambling to his feet, Sam pulling Donna up, their weariness forgotten. He pushed them ahead of him, pointing desperately towards the cars, only a few hundred meters away. 

“Run!” He pointed more forcefully when they looked back at him, having taken a few stumbling steps away. “Run! Go to them, I’ll follow!”

Sam moved towards him, glaring and stubborn, even in the face of the danger that waited if they stayed. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“No! I’m not leaving you, you don’t get to die for us.” Sam was closer now, a hand extended, closer to exactly where Dean didn’t want him to be. Donna came to the rescue, her uninjured arm taking Sam’s in hers. 

She didn’t say anything, only pulled Sam with her, breaking into a jog, both limping as they went. Sam turned back, clearly wanting to protest, to say something even as they were leaving. 

Dean made the decision for him, spinning around and lunging into the passenger seat of his car, careful to keep low. Even if John was injured, he could reload a shotgun. All he could do was hope the ammo was too far away or not with him at all.

Of course, that was too much to ask _._ Another spray of bullets hit the side of the car, his father focusing on him, as he was closer and easier to hit then Sam and Donna, who’d pulled into a staggering run, zig zagging as they went. 

The glove compartment was unlocked, cracked open, likely broken on impact. He wrenched it open further, hand scrambling inside, shuffling papers and burners phones until it closed on the cool, metal handle of his gun.

It was heavy, the chamber loaded and ready to shoot. He flicked the safety off, switching it to his other hand momentarily, grabbing the couple spare ammo cases he knew were lying inside. Dean crammed them in his pocket, not bothering to close the compartment when he was done. 

He crawled out backwards, keeping his head down as his knees hit the gravel again. He dared a glance towards am and Donna; they were still running, less than a hundred meters away from help. 

They didn’t have far to go. He’d just have to cover them.

Dean leaned back, careful to keep all parts of his body below the door frame of the car, and let off six shots, sketching a wild pattern in the hopes that John would find it harder to predict what end of the car he was at now. 

He shifted to all fours, hands braced on the ground, feet tucked under him as he waited for the returning rattle of shots. His heart was pounding in his ears, hands twitching as he steadied himself, but other than that he was still. 

As the bullets clanged off the car, one whizzing through two sets of windows and into the trees to his left, he took off. Dean willed every bit of fear and anger into his legs, forcing them to move under him as he launched into a dead sprint after them. 

He heard a shout and crash, the door of the Jeep finally giving as John kicked it again. With a quick glance back, he peeled off two more shots, causing John to duck and pause, if only for a moment.

A moment ment less time to reload, less time to chase, and more time for him to run. The ground blurred beneath him, feet pounding as he raced towards the cars, Sam and Donn having made it now.

There were more shouts from the police, yelling encouragement and warning, some calling to him, others pointing behind. 

Here’s a little thing about us humans: we can’t outrun bullets. 

When the bullet hit his leg, he went down _hard,_ feet catching and tripping, twisting as he fell, just in time to catch himself on his side. It’s never fun to face plant on gravel, and he barely avoided that fate. 

The rocks dug into the wound, along with all the others, a whimper passing the clamped line of his lips. His palms were shredded and his knees weren’t much better, blood already sliding down his legs.

The sharp pain of the cuts washed away the shock from the fall and it only took a second before Dean was forcing himself up again, legs shaking as he put his weight on them, gun once again in his hand. He took a stumbling step forward, readying for the remaining distance, the last time he’d run for his life.

As soon as he was out of the way they’d open fire; there was no need to bring John in alive. No need to risk that he’d escape, and without Dean and his phone calls, they’d have no way of tracking or catching him.

An arm wrapped around his throat, a hand pressing his head further into the hold, legs clamping on either side of his, stopping him from trying to kick his way free.

He’d caught up. John had caught up, _of course he had_ , because there was no way to outrun him, nothing was as simple as that. 

The gathered police forces had gone silent, one holding Sam back as he tried to rush forward. A cold piece of metal pressed into his temple, the barrel of a gun, as John spoke, voice rumbling through his chest and into Dean’s back.

_Kinda ironic that the closest fucking thing to a hug was a choke hold._

_Sorry, not ironic. Fucking sad._

Besides the quick commentary in his head, Dean’s mind had gone blank. Blank and still, as John began to make his demands. 

“I’m going to walk out of here or I’m going to blow him to hell.” His dad’s voice, so toneless and uncaring. Like he was talking about the stock market or golf or whatever regular dads were supposed to talk about. 

There was the squeal of a megaphone, a pause before anyone called back. The voice of the woman was familiar, likely one of the agents from the phone. _“Let him go and we’ll let you leave without him.”_

Yeah, that wasn’t going to work. There was no way they’d let John leave, alive, and he knew that. That was why he had Dean, as protection. A human shield, one Dean was sure they’d risk shooting through if it meant getting John.

He was fine with that. Really, he was fine. Because if that meant Sam was safe, that the hundreds of future victims were safe from someone like his dad, it was something worth dying for. 

That didn’t mean he wanted to die, per es, he just knew when something was bigger than him. And this was, it was so much bigger than him. 

John jammed the barrel into his head harder, arm tightening around his throat. His hands came up on instinct, one pulling at his arm, the other clawing at his throat, air wheezing into his lungs.

His father laughed behind him, the sound rolling through his chest and shaking Dean, a manic smile bright on the killer’s face. He clearly didn’t believe the woman either.

There was a shout from the crowd, one lone cry of desperation, the words so faint he could barely make them out. Sam, who was still struggling against the officer’s hold, waving wildly and shouting, one hand forming the shape of a gun and gesturing towards his belt. 

_Oh._

Not giving John time to react, Dean slammed a hand upwards, knocking the barrel away from him, before twisting his other hand to his father’s back, grabbing the handle of the gun that was always kept there, loaded, and clicked the safety off.

Faster than he’d ever moved in his life, he jammed the handgun’s barrel into the soft underside of John’s chin and pulled the trigger.

_Pulled the trigger._

There’s a big fucking difference between shooting someone far away, watching them fall or cry out in pain and actually killing somebody. The arms around him went slack, his father’s whole torso staying upright for a moment before he crumpled, blood and brains leaking from the sizable hole in his head. 

There was blood on Dean’s face as well, his own dried blood mingling with what was fresh from John’s, soaking his hair and sliding down his neck and forehead.

Dean took a step forward, away from the body, the world going fuzzy on the edges. He looked up and saw people streaming towards him, EMTs with a stretcher, officer’s with their guns, Sam at the head of it all, his tearful face burning into his mind.

It was like a bomb had gone off inside his head. All he could hear was ringing, his eyes focusing on the body of his dad, of John Winchester, staring sightlessly towards the sky.

A laugh bubbled ast his lips and he leaned back over the corpse, gun clenched in his shaking hand. The laughter died as he raised it, firing straight into John’s chest. Blam blam blam blam blam blam. Six bullets, like that.

He needed to be sure that he was dead. Really, truly dead.

The gun slipped from his fingers, chamber spent, as he fell to his knees. He only got out a murmured, “Sam,” before his eyes rolled back, into his head, and he collapsed, the gravel feeling like a feather bed beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!!
> 
> Lemme know what you thought in the comments. Your comments make my day! :)
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!


	7. Hospital Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo to everyone who's been sticking with this!! Y'all are the best.
> 
> This next chapter has a bit of the happy and the sad, so be prepared my friends. But never fear, it will slowly get better from here (wellllll, it's more of a roller coaster to recovery than a walk in the park).
> 
> Also: Kudos and lots of love to those of you who've been leaving such amazing comments. And the three of you leaving the long, really sweet ones every chapter? (you know who you are) Thank you. You're the reason I finished this amid panic about finals in quarantine.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!!

It was the beeping that woke him up. A steady, shrill, electronic beep sounding in his right ear, the whirring of machines quietly joining it.

The surface beneath him was firm, a scratchy fabric covering him. An object was clipped to his index finger, the wire snaking off of it brushing his arm as Dean shifted, a groan muffled by his teeth.

There was something in his throat. 

Something hard and plastic and thick going _down his throat._ Faintly, he heard the beeping speed up, the sound muffled like it was underwater. 

Dean was choking, trying and failing to gasp around the tube, hands clenching on sheets as he struggled to sit up, to get out, uncomprehending as a door banged open, unfamiliar people flooding the room.

That whole plan to get out? Yeah, not that great.

It felt like his torso was on fire, a scream smothered as hands pushed him back down, shoulder blades pressing into the ground.

A woman was leaning close, her face blocking Dean’s view of the room, mouth moving past the blur of his tears. Her hand was on his shoulder, fingers giving a squeeze, gripping tight.

_Too fucking tight._

He clawed at her wrist, body bucking as he felt more hands pinning him down, voices filling the room. Everything was too bright, too loud, _too much._

Then, a sort of warmth seeped into him. It was the feeling you get when a quilt was tucked around you, when you get a soft hug and kiss on the head from a parent, when you drink boiling hot chocolate in freezing weather, the sugary drink becoming your blood as it warms you from the inside out.

Dean couldn't help but relax, head lolling to one side as the hands requilished their holds, voices quieting.

His eyelids felt like they were made of stone, drooping more and more as he drifted, muscles going slack and throat relaxing. The pull of sleep lulled him, winning the battle as he fought to stay awake.

———————

A hand was on his wrist.

That was the first coherent thought he could form, the rest of his brain being decidedly useless with swirls of colors and dim lights making up his consciousness. 

The grip was light, loose. Almost as if someone had done it without thinking and had forgotten to pull their hand away.

Achingly, painstakingly, Dean forced his eyes to open, squinting against the onrush of lights from the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. It took a moment or two of blinking before he could really look around, careful not to move his wrist - _he couldn’t have if he tried_ \- as he slowly rolled his head to the right.

A woman dressed in scrubs, a name tag clipped to her shirt, was checking his vitals. The screen in front of her was blocked from his view, both by the nurse and the angle it was at. 

Not that he really cared what the screen said, it made no difference whether his bpm was eighty or eighty five, he just wanted to see how it compared to the movies and crappy shows they had in hotels. 

Dean must have made some sort of noise, for the nurse looked down, surprise evident on her face as she smiled and spoke.

“It’s good to see you awake,” she said, voice soft. “I’ll go get your doctor. Stay right here, okay?”

The nurse left with a pat on his wrist and another reassuring smile, the door clicking shut behind her. As he watched her leave, Dean became aware of just how strange he felt. 

His limbs, especially his legs, had a weird sort of ache, like he’d ran a marathon and had just woken up the following morning, realizing he forgot to stretch. His throat felt like sandpaper - _the tube was gone, thank God_ \- and his eyes were dry, the feeling you get when you wake up after sleeping for too long in the summer.

_How long had he been sleeping?_

That thought was enough to make him try to move, arms barely cooperating as he heaved them under himself, pushing as he forced his torso up. 

It was at that moment the doctor and a pair of nurses - _the first one did not accompany them_ \- returned, their gasps telling him just how much pain he should be in, if not for the morphine drip, so conveniently in place.

The younger of the two nurses seemed more alarmed, as if she’d just got the job and _could not believe_ that people tried to sit up in their hospital beds when left alone for too long.

Her face was enough to force a laugh out of him, a grating chuckle that hurt his throat more than it should, causing him to start coughing, a wrist pressed to his mouth. The nurses were less amused, gently taking his arms from under him and laying him back down.

The older nurse, her graying hair tied back into a severe knot, raised the bed, so he was half sitting up, the air flowing into his lungs easier. She waited, her stern expression never wavering, as he fought to get his lungs back under control.

The coughs felt like they were scorching the inside of him, his throat raw and scratchy as he sucked in air and wheezed it back out.

Through all this, the doctor waited patiently by the door, not stepping father into the small room until he was breathing easier, the younger nurse carefulling pressing ice chips into his mouth. 

“Hello Mr. Winchester, my name is Doctor Thompson and I am your head physician at the moment.” Now this, this was a woman not to be fucked with. Her eyes, while not cold - _can’t really be scaring your patients_ \- were serious, a professional look pasted onto her face.

If Dean had to guess, he’d say that she was between fourth and fifty years old, and would definitely survive the apocalypse. 

“...Wassup doc?” The slurring of his voice diminished the perfection of his imitation - _Sam had laughed so hard the first time he’d done it, so he kept doing it_ \- and he told himself that was why Dr. Thompson was unimpressed. 

“I just want to go over a brief overview of your injuries and the care we have done on them.” A clipboard was in Thompson’s hands, courtesy of the older nurse. She flipped through a few pages, coming to a pause and raising her eyebrows at him as she looked over the paper.

She was waiting for him to say something, he realized, a few seconds too late.

“Knock yourself out.” The waver in his voice was nearly undetectable. 

The doctor went on to describe his _vast_ array of injuries, from four fractured ribs to the burns on his back to the minor concussion he sustained and seemed to be mostly recovered from. He had various scrapes and bruises, many from the car crash, some of which had required stitches.

The morphine was both for his ribs and his back; he couldn’t feel a thing. They were treating the burns with a mixture of pain relievers and burn ointment, the bandages needing to be changed every few hours.

Dean had gotten lucky with the bullet wound, they’d told him, the younger nurse smiling encouragely. 

_Lucky._ It really seems lucky that his dad shot him and grabbed him after he fell because of the _fucking bullet that went into his leg._

And then, because he couldn’t die, couldn’t leave Sam with him standing right there, he’d acted on instinct and had - he had - 

_Yeah, we’re not going there any time soon._

“- lowering the doses, as you’re now awake and stable.” He’d spaced out, the scary doctor lady finishing up her little speech about what was wrong with him.

“Sorry, what was that?” Dean tried his best to keep his tone mild, but he didn’t pull it off as well as he thought he would. Nothing like getting frustrated at the doctor when you stop paying attention, am I right? 

“What I was saying before was,” began Thompson. “Since you’re awake and stable, the doses of morphine will be lowered a little each day.” 

That made sense. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to feeling the full extent of his injuries anytime soon, but the warm laziness that filled his veins made him feel restless, feel wrong. Dean would rather be in pain than feel that.

Apparently, as he contemplated the circumstances, the nurses wrapped up their examinations of him, one already slowing the drip of morphine, while the other took notes on her own clipboard. The doctor watched him carefully, a small frown on her face.

Her eyes flickered between his back and face, frown deepening as she stood there, waiting for the nurses to finish up. He knew what she was going to ask before she spoke.

“How did you get those burns?” Of course. 

He rolled his head to the side as the bed lowered slowly to a completely horizontal position, the strain from keeping his head up getting the best of him. “I answer your question truthfully and I get a question in exchange that you will answer too.”

The doctor smiled for the first time yet, just faintly, in amusement at the deal he offered. “Alright, I can do that.”

“Radiator.” When they at first seemed confused, like they couldn’t piece together how he could have _possibly_ gotten those wounds from a radiator of all things, he continued. “Handcuffed to a radiator that was on. For a few hours.”

There was a gasp from the younger nurse, silence from the others - but their faces gave them away. A quiet sort of horror and anger filled the room, Dr. Thompson’s hands clenching the sides of her clipboard.

“Sam. Where is he and how is he?”

From the look that overtook Thompson’s face - _gotta have a mask for these kinds of situations, gotta keep calm for the patients_ \- she certainly wasn’t surprised. Honestly, she seemed impressed that he hadn’t asked as soon as he could talk, which was what he’d wanted to do.

You can’t seem too desperate in enemy territory, after all.

Dean was sure there was some sort of therapist response to that, something pertaining to insecurity and trust issues and an overused fight or flight response - _what’s that called? Oh right, anxiety_ \- but he didn’t care. He just wanted his brother.

“Your brother is fine. He was in much better shape than you and is in his own room at the moment.” Well, he wasn’t going to demand to see him if his brother was resting, God knows he needed all the sleep he could get. 

That brought another thought shooting into Dean’s mind, making him blink hard and lift his head, forcing wakefulness as he spoke again. “How long have I been asleep? How - how long have I been here?”

Another faint, this time sympathetic, smile thrown his way. “Just over two weeks.” The doctor motioned for the nurses to go, as they were finished with calibrating and checking the various machines and computers around the room. “Rest up, there are some people who want to talk to you when you’re ready.”

The lights flickered off, door closing with a click behind the three women. They really wanted him to go to sleep, didn’t they. 

As he faded into unconsciousness - _once again, it’s getting to be quite a habit_ \- he was left wondering, what the hell did they want to talk to him about? What was so urgent that they couldn’t wait until he was completely recovered?

He was still thinking when his eyes slipped closed, falling into a deep sleep.

_______________

Dean was not hungry. He was not. He was also, definitely, not hungry for whatever the fuck passed as eggs in a hospital. It looked like someone had cut up motherfucking SpongeBob and served him on a plate.

He’ll drink the orange juice, sure. I mean, it was _juice_. That was different, you don’t turn down juice, just like on an airplane.

Or at least, the airplanes in the movies. Those usually involved stewardesses in far too little clothing and sexy, mysterious passengers for a weekend fling.

Clearly, not the most accurate.

_But still,_ it was juice. You drink the juice, eat the fruit cup, eat the cardboard masquerading as toast, and you don’t eat the eggs. That was rule number one in all the movies, don’t eat hospital eggs or airplane eggs or hotel eggs.

The nurse who’d brought him his breakfast had simply smiled when he’d explained this, voice less slurred from the night before as she lowered his morphine dosage again. She was the older lady from before, the one with the really severe bun that her silver hair was twisted into.

It had to be giving her a headache, to keep her hair up that tight.

“I’m serious, I’m not going to eat those. I’m not even hungry!” His protests were about as useful as a tissue paper umbrella, the woman simply shaking her head with a smile as she handed him his fork.

“There aren’t any choices with this, young man, so eat up.” Dean liked her. She reminded him of what a grandma should be, forcing food and imparting wisdom into you at the most opportune times.

He heaved out a sigh - _he really wasn’t hungry, that’s what happens when you sleep for two weeks, your stomach goes to the size of a peanut_ \- as he stabbed the first clump with his fork, knuckles white around the metal to keep his hands from shaking.

Apparently, that was leftover stress, some sort of trauma symptom, to have hands that shake when they shouldn’t. He’d kinda tuned the doctor out that morning, instead focusing on not spilling a cup of orange juice down his shirt. 

Dean only managed a few bites, putting the fork down with a clack as he fought off a wave of nausea. The nurse decided that that was enough, cleaning the tray from his lap quickly, setting it down for a moment on the table nearby. 

“I don’t even know your name.” It came out quieter than he’d wanted, not as steady as he wanted either. The nurse smiled, her usual stern grandma expression wiped away.

“Minerva, but you may call me Minnie. After all, that’s what my friends call me.”

Oh, that was great, that was so fucking awesome. He couldn’t stop the startled laugh that escaped his mouth, a grin growing as he spoke. “Minerva? As in, Minerva McGonagall? That’s so perfect.”

He felt a sort of child - like glee come into his voice, a smile mirrored on the nurse’s - sorry, McGonagall’s face as he laughed. The fucking jokes he could make now, the sheer number of fucking jokes and references. That is, if she’d read the books, he could.

“You have read Harry Potter, right?”

“Of course I have, it would be a shame if I hadn’t.” She picked up the tray, moving towards the door as she looked over her shoulder. “You’ll have visitors in about an hour dear, so be prepared.”

“Thanks professor!” There was a quiet ‘You’re welcome, Mr. Potter’ before he was left to his own devices, which included staring at the wall, staring at the ceiling, and staring at the window, as the remote for the tv wasn’t in the room and he’d forgotten to ask.

An hour hadn’t ever passed slower.

_______________

The FBI. That’s who his visitors were. Two agents, one of which he’d spoken to on the phone - _Manuel or some shit_ \- along with his supervisor or something, someone higher up the food chain.

They sat in hard plastic chairs, a thick stack of papers and what appeared to be a few books in the supervisor’s hands, watching as he was slowly raised to a sitting position, mindful of his ribs and back. 

The nurse, the younger one this time - _it seemed they were only going to use the same nurses with him, like they thought he’d trust them more_ \- gave him a pat one the arm and _another_ smile as she left, a quick reminder to the agents that they had half an hour and no more.

The supervisor, who he was just going to call Mike, reassured her, saying, “It won’t take any longer than that.” They waited until the door was shut behind her before they turned to Dean, suddenly more serious than they’d been previously, if it were possible.

Mike moved his chair a little closer, angling it so Dean didn’t have to turn his head as much. He was shuffling and reordering the papers in his lap, moving one of the books closer to the top, but keeping a paper on top of it as he did.

Huh. Must be some pretty fucking important book. 

“As I’m sure that you have guessed, the house you were staying at was completely searched after your rescue, as were the cars.” If this was about the grenade launcher, he had no part in it. He just thought it was cool, but he was never going to actually _use_ it.

It seemed that the nervous, hysterical part of his brain was winning over logic.

Instead of saying that, he nodded, careful to keep his face completely blank. “Yeah, I figured.” What else were they going to do? Take some selfies with the cars and call it a day?

“As we were looking, we found some pretty important evidence, including a list of every victim John had ever killed.” The journal, they’d found the journal. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” He tried - _and failed_ \- to keep the waver from his voice, hands clenching the sheet beneath him. “I mean, I appreciate the company, but why are you talking to me about it?”

He didn’t miss the look that was cast between the two agents - _did they think he was blind?_ \- and it only made him more apprehensive, the continued silence getting to him. “What did you find?”

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this way, but you deserve to know.” The man did seem genuinely apologetic, like this was the hardest decision he’d ever had to make in his life, and he couldn’t bear to see the result. 

He leaned forward, placing one of the books from his stack onto Dean’s lap, it’s leather cover creaking as it was set down. 

_The journal. Fuck._

After an encouraging nod from the agents, a quiet ‘Go on’, he reached out, hand shaking as it neared the pages. 

There was a deep seated sort of fear, the feeling that the world would come crashing down if he touched it, opened it. The feeling that this was inherently wrong and _he shouldn’t be doing it._

Sucking in a breath, he flipped the cover open, like ripping off a bandaid or getting a shot. Get it over with. And his eyes couldn’t comprehend what they saw.

There was a picture of a smiling blonde woman, so happy in the moment, her long hair wavy and shiny in the faded photo. Faded, because the entry was old, four years before any of the other ones. 

He skimmed the description of her death, eyes catching on little words, so neatly printed in his dad’s handwriting. 

Fire.

Electrical sparks.

_Nursery._

Then, finally, his eyes rested on the name at the top, right above her photo. Right above his mother’s photo.

Mary Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> Except for maybe the fact that I've been planning that since the beginning and I hope you're all surprised? Or at least a little surprised I had the balls to go through with it? I dunno.
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter!! Lemme know what you though in the comments below!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!


	8. Loose Pages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all...you remember how I said it would get better? Maybe I just said that to a few comments or something, but I swear I did.
> 
> Just keep in mind, it’s gonna get worse for a second before it gets better. But I promise, it will get better. 
> 
> Also: Thank you gunpowder_and_pearls for reading the rough draft and pointing out the various loopholes with a smirk on your face. Love ya dude. (They cried when they read it, and for that, be prepared. They’re not much of a crier, at least not for my writing)
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!!

He vaguely recognizes he must have made some sort of choked sound, his throat so closed up that he can barely breathe. Through a haze of tears, he can see his grip tightening around the journal - _the damned journal_ \- pages crinkling as they fold under his grip.

The agents are still sitting there, watching him closely, a mixture of concern and calculation showing on their faces.

Calculation, as they gauge how close he is to snapping.

“He killed my mom.” The twisted quality of his voice barely sounds like his own, raspy and filled with hate, as he stares and stares and stares down at the photo.

Dean could feel the agents tensing when he spoke, the door of the hospital room opening to admit another pair of agents, their faces set in stone. Of course.

Of course, they’re still afraid of him. Afraid of just how much like his father is, terrified that they had rescued them and brought another monster, one who already knows all the tricks of the trade, safe and sound into the world.

That cop he’d seen in the hallway? Regularly posted by his door, every time he was awake? He wasn’t there as protection for _Dean._ He was reassurance that if the older son of John fucking Winchester decided he’d had enojugh of the hospitals or the nurses or the beeping machines or the stale air that never changed in his room - 

He was reassurance that there was a chance of stopping him before he got too far.

The two new agents didn’t come far, stopping just inside the doorway, shutting the door behind them. Dean didn’t look up as it closed, knowing already that they were blocking it, that he didn’t need to see them standing there, like he was going to spring out of the bed and stab the two sitting closer to him - 

A stack of papers was smacked down next to the journal, redacted documents, police reports and witness’s statements on the top. He shifted his eyes to the older agent, the man now sitting on the edge of his chair.

“That is all the data we’ve recovered based off of that,” said the agent, jabbing a finger towards the leather bound book, a professional sort of tone taking over his voice. As if he was trying to distract Dean from the horror he’d found placed in front of him, like a child at the doctor’s office.

That makes him look up fully, meeting the eyes of the men sitting in their damn plastic chairs, who’s watching him like he’s a ticking bomb, a leaky pipe fit to burst, a wind up toy twitching as the gears get stuck, ready for the explosion.

He’d once looked at a man like that.

“He killed my _mom._ ” He feels like he’s going to shatter, going to burn down everything surrounding him and rumble to ash at the same time. The tears are gone, the journal is creaking in his grip.

“I am very sorry that these circum - ”

Dean screams as he sweeps his arms across the tray set on his lap, sending papers flying and falling to the ground, strewn over his bed and the agents, the journal still in his hand.

“He killed my mom in my brother’s nursery! He started the damn fire and left her to die when she ran to save Sam!” He’s shouting now, roaring in the faces of the agents, anger building inside of him and spilling over every wall he’s built.

They sit there, stone faced and silent as he screams his rage to the heavens, knuckles white on the book clutched in his hands.

“You know he gave me Sam to carry out. Did you know that?” He practically snarls, a note of hysteria rising in his voice. “He told me to run, to run and not look back!”

He throws the journal as hard as he can against the opposite wall, sending it smacking against the surface and thumping to the ground, a few loose pages drifting out of it. 

_They probably already scanned it all into a computer, before they even thought about telling me. Can’t lose evidence after all._

As fast the anger comes, it goes, leaving him drained and shaking in his bed, back and ribs twinging as he crumples in on himself. “He told me to run, leave just as he left my mom to burn.” Dean’s sobbing now, so choked that he can barely get the words out. “I left her to burn.”

He can’t breathe, tears slipping past his closed eyes, streaking down his face as he shakes, arms tight around his middle. His hands are clenching his hospital gown, the fabric being the only thing stopping him from hurting himself, nails digging into the palms of his hands. 

He can’t breath, he can’t _breathe,_ choking on the air that’s turned to stone around him, suffocating in an open room - 

There’s hands on him again, prying his fists open and gently pushing his shoulders down, the pressure making him swing out blindly as he gasped, eyes closed so tight he can see stars - 

Something’s pricking his neck, the same languid warmth spreading as he slumps, limps going slack. He’s still fighting for air, mouth opening and closing as he tries not to give in, because he doesn’t want to go to sleep, doesn’t want to see his mom’s death a thousand more times than he already has, fire exploding from windows.

He’s still drowning in open air when he falls unconscious, oxygen rushing into his lungs as soon as he goes slack, finally able to breathe.

_______________

This time, Dean wakes to an empty room. There’s no bustling nurses or whispered words as his back is rewrapped, a new bandage applied. This time, it’s just him and the beeping machines, the sedative long since worn off.

He just lays there and breathes, deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Almost like he’s proving to himself he can.

The walls surrounding him are blank, white and emotionless; he almost wishes for the children’s ward and it’s cheerful posters. He’d technically be in the children’s wing if he wasn’t considered a volatile patient, a loose cannon.

They don’t take unnecessary risks with kids.

He’s still laying there, breathing, when the doctor comes in, the older nurse - _Minerva_ \- close behind her. Dean doesn’t look at them until they’re practically at his bedside, and even when he does, he can’t meet Dr. Thompson’s eyes.

“Did you know?” That wasn’t the question he’d meant to ask, but the words had gotten jumbled around in his head until that was the only question that would come out, frank and to the point.

She gave a shake of her head, a sympathetic - _not pity, not quite. Good. He didn’t want pity._ \- frown on her face. “I was told after the outburst. None of the health staff were informed, as we would have told them not to on account of your condition.”

The thin layer of politeness in her voice as she spoke of the federal agents did little to hide her contempt of them.

“I’m glad they told me.” Somehow, as some point, his voice had grown hoarse, likely from the bout of screaming and tears yesterday - was it even yesterday? Dean didn’t know how long he’d been asleep for, and he found he didn’t care.

There was a slight sigh from the doctor; she wanted to say something but her professionalism and job denied her of it. 

Personally, he’d pay big money to see Dr. Thompson cuss out those agents. 

A few moments of silence pass, the nurse examining his wrists - _bandages from the handcuffs replaced_ \- and his ribs, a stethoscope pressed against his chest as the doctor listened for any problems with his breathing, any creaking or cracking from his ribs.

“I want to talk to Sam.”

Dr. Thompson stood quickly at that, a stern frown pressed into the lines of her face, one hand holding her clipboard while the other shook a finger in front of her. He was vividly reminded of a school teacher from the 40’s, after finding her students had snuck out of the classroom to make out, at the speed she was waving her finger.

“Definitely not. You are to sit here and recover, that is my job. To make sure you heal, whether you want to slow down the process or not.” 

“Aww, come on doc.” He forced a grin on to his face, the light it produced not quite reaching his eyes. He needed to see Sam, needed to tell him the right way. He needed to tell him in the way the FBI agents hadn’t for him. “I’ll let you wheel me around in a wheelchair and everything.”

The doctor must have seen something in his face, something that said _‘get me the fuck out of here or I’ll walk there myself’_ because she gave in after only a few moments, sighing as she rubbed at her temples.

“Absolutely no walking, no trying to find a way out of it, no fast movements.” Thompson had a defeated air about her, in a way he hadn’t seen yet. Dean had a feeling she was amping it up for him, matching his forced cheerfulness with a strong acting skill he hadn’t known she had.

“Agreed.” The deal happened a little too fast for it to be anything that wasn’t planned, anything that both sides hadn’t thought through beforehand. “But I want a pair of pants.”

_______________

They ended up giving him a pair of paper-like, blue pants, a thin piece of elastic running through the waistband. They’d also supplied him with socks, little plastic bits on the bottom to keep the wearer from falling - _likely for after surgery or something_ \- and a thin, white t-shirt. 

The socks didn’t make much sense to him, after all, it wasn’t like he’d be _walking_. Sadly, they were a nonnegotiable clause of the doctor’s deal. No socks, no Sam.

Dean had tried, at first, to put the pants on himself, ready to be out of the damned hospital gown. He couldn’t even pull it up past his knees. It required too much wriggling around or standing to get it on.

When Minerva had come to help him, his facade had almost crumbled, shoring it up at the last minute when she looked away from him, blinking past tears. He was grateful that she pretended not to see them.

The policeman in the hallway didn’t follow them, didn’t so much as glance at them for longer than a second as he was wheeled out, a blanket in his lap. They went all the way to the end of the hallway and turned left, far past where he’d been told Sam was.

_Of course they wouldn’t really tell him Sam’s room number or how much space was between them or how far away he was. After all, it’s less likely one of us will run if they don’t know where the other is._

Dean did his best to push that voice into the back of his head, far from where he’d hear it.

There was another cop in the hallway as they slowed, Dr. Thompson walking beside the wheelchair as Minerva pushed it. Just like before, the policeman didn’t look at them past a quick glance, obviously expecting their arrival. 

The hallway practically empty besides them, a few nurses bustling between rooms, footsteps sounding muted and underwater as he sat there. His doctor had ducked into the room in front of them; he could see her conversing with a nurse through the blinds.

When Thompson exited the room, the blonde nurse following her, he tried to steady himself. He fought the buzzing in his ears, taking deep breaths - _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ \- and blinked a few times, the chair beneath him rolling forward. 

This time, he stopped Minerva, a hand going to the handles she held. He wanted to go to his brother on his own, and if he couldn’t walk, he’d be damned if he was pushed inside. 

Thankfully, she let go with little argument, a cutting look delivered from Thompson as he maneuvered his way through the doorway. He didn’t care.

He didn’t care, because there was Sam, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, gown and blanket wrapped around him. He didn’t care, not one bit, as his brother stood and rushed towards him, pulling to a stop at the last minute to stoop and hug him, grip just a little too tight.

Almost woodenly, Dean lifted a hand to the back of his brother’s head, shakily combing through his hair, his other arm wrapping around Sam’s back. 

“Hey Sammy, good to see you,” he said, unable to keep a smirk from his face as Sam pulled back, a few tears already trickling down his face. “Aww, you’re already crying? I didn’t know I was that important.”

Sam denied it with a shake of his head, rubbing the tears away. “I wasn’t crying _for_ you. It’s your face I’m crying for.”

He couldn’t contain his laugh at that, all the tension he’d had gathered inside him melting away at his brother’s little jab. “Oh really? What’s my face gotta do with anything?” He already knew Sam’s answer before he spoke.

“It’s just so fucking ugly, I felt bad for you.” Then his brother looked him in the face, the light of mischief coming into his eyes. “It’s nothing new, I’m just not used to it any more.”

Dean gave an indignant squawk as he lightly punched Sam’s shoulder, the little movement sending tremor down his arm. Huh. That’s new. He told himself it was because he was tired, that was all. That had to be all.

Sam must have seen a change in his face, because he backed away, moving to sit on the bed again, all the way at the end. 

There was never a time he was more grateful for their unspoken communication, never more grateful that Sam hadn’t tried to move his chair and instead placed himself in the one spot Dean could really sit next to him.

The room was silent as he wheeled himself over, arms already feeling the strain of pushing his own body weight around. If he stood up, though, he probably wouldn’t be allowed to visit Sam for a while longer.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” He couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes, instead focusing on the hem of his shirt, twisting it round and round in his hands. “It’s not a good thing.”

Sam didn’t say a word, instead gently placing a hand over his, carefulling stilling his movement. 

“It’s about Mom.” He didn’t miss Sam’s quick intake of breath as his words; their mom was a subject they barely touched, except to quietly contemplate what she would have been like on Christmas, on Thanksgiving. 

“Dean, whatever it is, you can tell me.” His brother’s eyes are so trusting, so wide and innocent and _worried_. Worried about him. That’s what finally spurs him into speaking, knowing he can’t keep this from Sam.

“I...I can’t _not_ tell you. And for that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sammy.” His words only amplified the concern blaring on his brother’s face. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, before he could force the truth out. “The fire wasn’t an accident. Mom’s death wasn’t an accident.”

He knew Sam understood, but one of them had to say it. If he just left the unspoken words hovering between them, it would only feel worse.

“Dad killed her.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, hopefully the ending wasn’t to abrupt (Was it? I feel like it was. Sorry.)
> 
> Lemme know what you think in the comments below, you guys are awesome!!
> 
> Just wondering, anyone else cry with Dean’s reaction or was gunpowder_and_pearls a little sensitive about that part?
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!! Good luck on finals (if you already took yours, I hope you did well!) (If you don’t have to take finals than screw you)


	9. Maybe, Just Maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is a little shorter than the other ones I've published, but that is on account of it also being a little later than ones I usually publish, so for that I am sorry.
> 
> Remember how I said things were getting better? It begins with this chapter.
> 
> Also: Idk I'm in a weird mood this morning, just kinda chill and really lazy and relaxed. In this mood, I have couple songs for you to listen to. Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson. My dudes, this is my favorite chill song. Make You Feel Better by Red Hot Chili Peppers.
> 
> If you haven't heard these, I'll forgive you, but only if you give them a chance and listen to AT LEAST a minute of them.
> 
> That being said, enjoy the chapter!!

For a moment, everything was still. It was like the two of them had a little bubble to themselves, far away from the beeping machines and fluorescent lights and clicking of pens. Sam stared back at him, eyes wide and dry.

Dean’s hands were clenched on the arms of his wheelchair, hesitating to reach out to his brother as he struggled to process it. Struggled, Sam’s eyes flickering between him and empty space, his arms wrapped tight around himself.

“Dad -” Sam paused, swallowing audibly before he looked back at Dean, eyes now welling up with tears. “ _John_ started the fire?”

Their own father, the man who’s supposed to protect you and stand by you for your entire life, had completely derailed theirs. He’d burnt down their childhood house - _they didn’t have much of a childhood after that_ \- and purposefully left their mother in the house - _he might have even trapped her there before he ran out after them_ \- then spent the next two years moving them around with increasing frequency, before he finally decided what he was going to do next.

Their own _father_ had decided he was going to murder people. He was going to trap and torture and murder young women for no reason, other than his clearly shaky sanity.

So this man, this failure of a father, didn’t deserve the title “dad”. He didn’t deserve to be spoken about and he didn’t deserve to be remembered in any sort of cherishable way.

His breath left him in a gust as he sighed and leaned forward, one hand coming to rest gently on Sam’s wrist. Dean left his hand there, not sure if Sam wanted a hug now, or wanted space. “I think he did. It didn’t say.”

They both knew what _‘it’_ was, both knew now that John had written the details down in the journal, a play by play documentation of a hunt, her name and photo like a trophy. 

The tears were now sliding down Sam’s face, his little brother trembling as he fought the sobs inside him. 

Dean felt like sobbing too.

Sobbing, for their mother and their house and the life they lost. Sobbing for the childhood they’d never had, a thing he’d never realized he’d lost before it was long gone.

But he didn’t. He didn’t cry, didn’t wail and scream until he couldn’t anymore, because Sam needed him. Sam needed him to be a big brother, the strong support he’d always had.

With those thoughts in mind, he forced his tears down, down and down and down, until he barely felt a thing. Then he drew Sam into his arms, the hold a little awkward with the wheelchair’s handles digging into his torso, but he managed it. 

Sam’s head came to rest in the juncture between his shoulder and neck, face pressing into his shirt. It was that thin shirt that he felt the tears soaking into, his brother’s body shaking as he tried to hold it all in.

“It’s okay Sam, it’s okay.” He stroked a hand through Sam’s hair, gently scratching as his fingers slid across his scalp. “It’s okay, you can let it out. Just let it all out.”

He felt Sam tense against him, shoulders coming up as he held his breath. Dean only held him closer, practically pulling him onto the chair with him. “Just let it all out.” His voice was a soft whisper, barely able to be heard, but it was all the reassurance his brother needed.

It was like dams breaking; once the water starts to flow, it doesn’t stop. Dean held his brother as he sobbed, wailing into his shirt, hands digging into his back. He held him as he shook and gasped for breath, muffled by the fabric. He held as he hiccupped and slumped, the cries petering off into whimpers. 

He held his brother, because if he didn’t, neither of them would have anything to hold onto, and then the world would surely split apart.

_______________

Dean was roused from his sleep by a soft knock on the door. Awareness came back to him in pieces. The handle digging into his side, bent awkwardly over it. His arms were numb, his brother leaning against them, his head lolling.

He took this in for a moment, the peaceful look on Sam’s face that only came with the deepest of sleep, something he hadn’t seen for a long time.

There was another knock, this time a little louder. Minerva stood in the doorway, a folded blanket held in her arms and a smile on her face. Dean didn’t move; he didn’t want to wake his brother. They were both light sleepers and with the slightest movement they could be wide awake in seconds.

Minerva whispered to him, seeing the need to keep quiet. “I’m here to help you back to your own room.” 

He looked behind her, into the hallway, and saw no one else. The cop had been cleared out, likely bored of babysitting a couple of kids. Dr. Thompson wasn’t there either, she was probably at home, tired from a day at work. 

It was with this train of thought that he looked towards the windows, seeing the night sky and streetlights beyond it. How long had they let him stay here? _It sure as hell was longer than half an hour._

Carefully, with aching slowness, he eased Sam out of his arms, leaning even further out of his chair to lay him down on the bed. He spent a moment longer than necessary straightening his brother’s legs and arranging his arms, in just the way they always were when he slept.

After a pause, he lifted the blanket from his lap and draped it over him, gently tucking it under Sam’s feet and legs. 

Thankfully, Minerva did not come further into the room, instead remaining at the door, though her expression shifted from a faint smile to something that could only be described as _soft._

He wasn’t sure if he wanted that anymore than he wanted pity.

Dean left with one last pat on Sam’s ankle, a last look at his brother’s face, peaceful. He didn’t fight Minerva when she pushed the wheelchair for him, if anything, he was too tired to do anything but watch the doors pass by. 

It was amazing how much trying not to cry could tire you out.

The nurse helped him into his bed, the blanket on her arm going over his feet. He was grateful for that; the air conditioning didn’t seem to know that it was already negative five degrees in the room before it turned on.

Minerva didn’t say a word until the end, with Dean laying flat on the bed, the thin pillow positioned expertly under his head.

“Sleep well.”

He almost let her walk out of the room at that. Almost.

“Hey Minnie?” His voice was hoarser than he remembered.

“Yes?” She’d paused at the door and turned around to face him completely, her face in shadow, the lights already off.

“Thanks.”

Minerva didn’t beam at him, didn’t accept the thanks and leave, didn’t look at him with pity in her eyes. Didn’t do any of that. Instead, she answered in the simplest way, the way he needed her to answer. 

“Of course.” Then she added, with a twinkle in her eye, “Always.”

The door shut quietly behind her, he footsteps fading until all he could here was the quiet wiring of machines, the heart monitor long since gone.

Despite how tired he was, it took him hours to fall asleep, unable to wipe the image of Sam from behind his eyes, his brother relaxed and at ease, in a way he had never seen before.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked it!!!
> 
> (again, sorry for the late update and shorter chapter)
> 
> Lemme know what you think!!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy! Get some sun! Run a mile! Drink some water!
> 
> (seriously, drink some water)
> 
> (i think i need to go drink water)
> 
> (i'm gonna go get some water)


	10. Generic™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! Summertime!!! WOO HOO!!!
> 
> Hope y'all's school/work/whatever wasn't to horrible during this quarantine, but for some of us (school) we get a break.
> 
> Such as me.
> 
> That is why, a few days after the last chapter I put out, I have another one!! Granted, the last one was short, but still. 
> 
> Shit is about to get better, but that doesn't mean Dean won't still be suspicious about it all. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

When he wakes up this time, there’s a woman standing in his room. Granted, with nurses and various health specialists going in and out of his for the last few days, he’s gotten used to waking up from naps to find unfamiliar people in his room.

This one though, she’s not a nurse. If she is, she forgot her scrubs at home and couldn’t be bothered to go back and get them.

The lady must have noticed him looking at her, squinting from his bed, because she ducks out of the room, likely to get an  _ actual _ nurse to help.

It’s the younger of his two nurses that accompany her -  _ he still doesn’t know her name, that’s kinda shitty _ \- and she quietly begins to explain who the stranger is.

Yeah, hell no. He’s not talking to some fucking psychiatrist, not about to answer a ton of insensitive and deep questions about himself, about his _ “trauma”,  _ just so they can put on paper that he’s not a whackjob and isn’t about to snap and massacre a bunch of children.

Turns out -  _ surprise, surprise _ \- that he doesn’t have a choice about answering questions he’d rather never think about for the rest of his life. 

The psychiatrist takes notes, her writing pad tilted away from him; he’d have to stand to see what she’d written. She talks to him for over two hours, questions ranging from ‘how much do you sleep a night?’ to ‘what events in your life have affected your dreams?’.

He tells her to fuck off a minute into the interrogation, only complying when he was gently reminded that this could be over very quick, and he is required to answer the questions.

Fuck it, he just wants to see Sam.

So he answers the questions. He responds as best he can and tries and tries and  _ tries _ to act as if everything is fine, as if those nightmares he’s lived through don’t affect him, as if he isn’t shaking in the bed by the time it’s over.

The woman leaves with an encouraging smile and assurance that he did well, thanking him for his time. He practically snorts at her words, it wasn’t as if he got to choose to talk to her, to “give her his time”. Instead -  _ gotta keep it civil for the civilians _ \- he nods and gives her a little wave, keeping his eyes trained on the far wall, to not see the trembling of his hand. 

The nurse returns when she leaves, lowering the bed until it’s almost flat again, gently helping him lay down, her hands fluffing the pillow. She pulls the blanket to his chin, careful to keep her hands where he can see them, something he doesn’t miss and appreciates. 

Appreciates, in a begrudging manner, because even though she’s harmless and nice and a  _ goddamned nurse _ , he would feel more on edge if he couldn’t see her. 

The nurse doesn’t say a word, only lowering the blinds and turning off the lights as she nears the door, lowering the morphine drip before she goes. Dean’s grateful for her silence too, for if he had to say one more thing, answer one more question, he might shatter from the force of his bottled up emotions.

So he watches her leave, he doesn’t ask her name, he doesn’t thank her, and he is left alone again -  _ finally _ \- with the whirring machines and dim window light.

_______________

His solitude lasts to the next morning, the nearly sleepless night before making his thoughts run at half pace, the bed suddenly the softest thing in the world when lights flicker on and Minerva announces her presence with a quiet, “Good morning.”

Dean doesn’t respond, only turns his face further to the side, mashing it into the pillow beneath him. He heard his nurse set the tray in her hands down, plastic clacking onto a metal counter. 

She headed to the window next, raising the blinds halfway, allowing the morning light to come into the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, fervently hoping that if he ignores her for long enough, she’ll leave.

It may have been a childish response, but he felt he deserved it. After all, with the last day he’d had, he should be allowed to sleep in.

Not that he was sleeping, but it was the  _ idea _ of it that mattered. 

Besides, one could only take so many smiles masking pity, sad eyes above grinning teeth, before they threw the towel in and snapped. 

And for that reason, Dean delayed rolling over and looking at Minerva, instead choosing to bask in the last few moments of relative privacy he had. Of course, that didn’t last long, for he was actually hungry for once and the breakfast she’d brought smelled amazing. 

He chanced a look over his shoulder, taking in the room with a glance. Minerva was turned away, her back to him -  _ purposely? _ \- as she busied herself with organizing the counter nearby, strewn with medical materials.

The breakfast tray was next to him, within arms reach, a plate of toast, a couple grayish sausages, a sorry excuse for a slice of french toast, and an applesauce. The spoon and fork were plastic, the cup perched precariously next to the plate made of wax paper. 

Sadly, no juice this morning.

Maybe if he asked, they’d give him some juice.

Nah.

As quietly as possible, as to not draw attention, Dean forced himself upright, propping the pillow up with him as he moved. He ignored the way his hands trembled as he reached for the tray, just as he’d ignored them the day before.

He thought he saw a smile on his nurse’s face as he started to eat, but that could have been his imagination.

He ate until he was full, something he rarely did -  _ lots of excuses: Sam needs it more, not enough time, got more important things to do _ \- which may have been the reason he was only halfway through when he pushed it away.

It could have also been that you cannot eat, under any circumstances, hospital eggs  _ or _ sausages. They were just disappointing. 

Minerva had apparently finished with her fiddling, and turned towards him, a sheet of paper folded in her hand. He had to give her credit for her poker face.

Dean knew what he looked like. Sunken in eyes, rimmed with red, gray circles underneath. He was pale, his hands clenched on the blanket, stark white bandages on his wrists. His hair was a mess and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

The night before, he had in fact fallen asleep. It may have only totaled up to an hour, and was broken up by nightmares that startled him awake, but he’d slept. He just hadn’t slept well. 

His nurse, though, she didn’t flinch. She carried on moving as if all was right with the world, not avoiding looking at him or looking too hard, just the right place in between. Slowly, Minerva approached the side of the bed, switching the tray in his lap for the paper in her hands. 

“We all thought it was best to give you a prior warning,” she said, her voice soft. “Your brother has been told as well.” When he didn’t immediately open the paper, she went on. “Your social worker and foster parents will be visiting this afternoon.”

Awesome. Just fucking awesome.

It wasn’t that he was surprised or anything, he’d figured they couldn’t stay at the hospital forever, figured that the police or the doctors or whoever the hell decides things like this, wouldn’t put them in a group home, at the higher risk of them running away.

Living with a family, going to school, that all had to be eased into. It was no surprise at all that they’d chosen to visit at the hospital and not wait until they were dumped on their doorstep to meet them.

“We get to meet them at the same time.” Thankfully, Minerva understood what he meant and didn’t question who “we” might be.

“Of course. Dr. Thompson already cleared the two of you for that.” She gestured at the folded paper, still laying in his lap. “Take a look. It has a little information for you, just in case you had any questions.”

Then, because she was the most understanding nurse in existence, she left the room. Sadly, she kept the blinds up and lights on, giving him no chance of ignoring the paper and pretending to go to sleep.

Dean unfolded the paper and read it.

_______________

He woke up as the lights came on, a soft knocking coming from the doorway. With a start, he pushed himself upright from where he’d slumped against his pillow, head snapping towards the door.

Dean hadn’t meant to fall asleep, one moment he’d been rereading the paper for the fifth time, the next, snapping awake. 

The younger of his two nurses stood there, a smile on her face. “Your visitors are here.”

Fuck.

Seven hours passes really fast when you’re stressed, tired, and take a nap.    
  


Behind her, three people stood. The woman at the front seemed very official, dressed in a suit better suited for an office -  _ better suited? Get it? _ \- and a stack of papers in her hands. The pair of people behind her were blocked from his view, but he knew who they were.

The parents. Paul and Amy Turner, the most generic Parents ™ in the world. Paul was the head librarian at the local library, his sweater and button down combo saying it all. Amy was the principal of their town’s highschool, meaning she’d have solid hours and would be able to keep an eye on them at school at all times.

He had to give the social worker some credit. She couldn’t have picked a more perfect pair. 

Both had normal hours, both had a job where they spent time around kids, both were the kind of people you’d expect to foster the children of a murderer out of the kindness of their hearts.

Dean nodded to the nurse and waved a hand at her -  _ still trembling _ \- to let them inside. There were already two chairs in the room, between his bed and the window, which the parents sat in, while the social worker remained standing. 

Good. That was good. No one was blocking the doorway.

The social worker introduced herself first. Her brown hair swayed as she leaned towards him, offering a hand to shake. Dean noticed how she didn’t come to close either, and didn’t block his view of the door. He shook her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester. My name is Pamela, I’ll be your case manager.” She grinned at him, taking a step back as he let go of her hand. She didn’t seem the type to wear a suit. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Dean nodded, eyes flicking from her gaze to the blanket. “Don’t call me that.”

That was  _ not _ what he’d meant to say.

He’d meant to politely ask her to call him Dean, maybe glance at the parents seated against the wall, make come normal remark about how he’d prefer not to use his last name right then, but his mouth got ahead of his brain.

“I mean - I uh, I’d rather just be called my first name,” he said, hands clenching and twisting the blanket as he stumbled through his words. “Sorry.”

Pamela waved him off, an understanding smile on her face. “No worries, it’s no problem at all.” She was still standing; it was clear she wasn’t planning on being in the room for a while, if she didn’t want a chair. “I wanted to get started by going over a few things - ”

“Where’s Sam?” When all Dean got was a look of confusion, he continued. “Sam is supposed to meet you with me. Where is he?”

Pamela considered that for a moment, before nodding and smiling again, walking briskly towards the door. She ducked out quickly, closing the door behind her. Through the window he could see her conferring with the nurse, obviously asking why Sam wasn’t there yet.

At least, that was what he’d ask. 

She popped back in a minute later, probably unwilling to leave him and the parents alone for very long, at least before they’d been properly introduced. “He’ll be just a moment, the nurse said that he should have been on his way already.”

It was just a moment, a much too long moment, before the door opened again, Sam standing on the other side. They’d given him a pair of pants and white shirt as well, apparently deciding to forgo the wheelchair.

Dean had been given the wheelchair on account of the  _ bullet wound _ in his leg, as it had been stressed by Dr. Thompson, but that didn’t make it fair that he’d been pushed around in it like an invalid.

The nurse had brought in another chair for Sam, one of the plastic folding ones -  _ sure, this one had cushions, but it still sucked _ \- which his brother completely ignored, instead heading straight to Dean’s bed, not waiting for him to move as he sat right on his legs.

He swallowed back a curse as Sam settled his bony self further onto his legs, uncaring of Dean’s shifting beneath him. He only moved when he was jabbed particularly hard in the shoulder by one of Dean’s hands, sitting to the side, still against Dean’s legs.

His brother was the only hint of normalcy in the room, his typical attitude coming out as he sought to put Dean at ease with silent insults and bony elbows to the gut. 

He was insanely grateful for that. 

“Now that we’re all here,” began Pamela. “I wanted to go over a few things before I left the four of you to get to know each other.” She was flipping through her papers, bringing a couple pages to the top of the stack.

“What is it?” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant it to, Sam giving a subtle warning squeeze to his ankle. 

“Your school transcripts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNN (I'm an idiot, I know. I'm sorry)
> 
> Hope y'all liked the chapter!!
> 
> Lemme know what you thought in the comments, and if you have any questions or whatever if I left a hole in the story!!
> 
> I apologize if anything (including the foster system, trauma, anxiety, and PTSD) is misrepresented in the coming chapters. I am trying my best using my friends, books, wikipedia, and various other sources to get it all right.


	11. (Blank) Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!! Back with another chapter!!
> 
> Now, even though it is getting better, getting safer for Sam and Dean, doesn't mean that Dean will trust just anybody (really, anybody at all, period) with his little brother. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!!

School had always been an issue with John.

Training came first. The job came first. Moving around, keeping the secrecy, that all came first.

Dean had tried his best, even with the circumstances. He’d stay up late, completing the class work he’d fallen asleep doing and the homework due the next day, working until the early hours in the morning.

More than anything, he’d done the best he could for Sam.

John had always been easier on his little brother, even if not by much, and he used that as best he could to his advantage. He used it to get Sam a library card, every town they stayed in for more than a few days, false names and emails and forged signatures doing the job where he couldn’t. 

On the days where John had someone, either on his way to get a new victim or ready to dispose of them, Dean made sure his brother slept over at a friends house or had somewhere also to go, even if it was a hotel room.

Because of that, Sam’s records were more put together than his, easier for the teachers to place him in the correct grade, easier for them to trust that he’d stay on track. 

Sam had flown through the last few grades with straight A’s, even as he missed half the days at school or left after less than a month. There were sometimes where neither went to school for weeks,as John was too paranoid to let them out of his sight.

Dean’s grades were less perfect, a spotty testament to his hard work, if one knew how to look at it. He averaged with C’s and B’s -  _ don’t fail a class, don’t draw attention to yourself _ \- perfectly average. 

The papers that Pamela was holding were their school records, or more likely, Dean’s school records. 

“Is there a problem?” God, he did not want to talk about this, think about this, or even look at the damned records right now. He wanted to get the _ fuck _ out of this room, take Sam with him, and leave, never to look back.

If only that would solve all their problems, they’d be gone in an instant.

The social worker’s response was indirect, not quite ignoring his question, but not answering it either. “Some of the reports from your teachers have been concerning, especially with how the two of your grades match up.”

Great. That’s even worse than just his grades. Now they all get to hear exactly how he did in school.

He hadn't even told Sam.

“There are a lot of concerns about you falling asleep in class, often in the middle of working on assigned work.” Pamela gave him an appraising look. “Can you tell me why that is?”

Dean sighed, dragging one hand back and forth over the blanket. It was calming, almost meditative. 

“ ‘Cause I would do the work I fell asleep doing the day before that, along with all my other missed work and homework.” He chanced a glance at Sam, who was watching him very carefully. “Sometimes Sam needed help with his stuff so I’d help; I understand it all anyways.”

“And other times? On a Monday, when you didn’t have weekend homework?” He could see what she was getting at, and although he knew she was just doing her job and she needed confirmation, he resented her for it. Just a little bit.

“Other times, Dad - John needed my help,” he said, thankful when she didn’t point out the correction. “So I’d help him or he’d hurt Sam and I’d have to help anyways.”

It was much more complicated than that, the various threats and promises John had made and acted upon, when it came to making Dean help. Some were directed at Sam, swearing that he’d never be able to find his brother again if he didn’t comply.

Other times, they were directed at the victim, a gruesome description -  _ usually in their presence _ \- of what he’d do to them, so much worse than death, if Dean didn’t do what he wanted him to.

He had always ended up helping in the end.

He could see that she knew there was more to it than that, but she wasn’t some therapist helping him  _ “recover his identity” _ or some shit, and if she was, he wouldn’t have said anything else anyways.

Pamela didn’t press, instead changing the subject -  _ slightly _ \- in a rather convincing manner. “I did want to let you know that there will be some placement tests, regardless of your previous scores, as a way to place you in the correct grade.”

A polite way of saying: this way, if you’re really that stupid, we’ll know.

The social worker turned, nodding to the parents, still sitting in their chairs, before she reshuffled her papers and explained that she’d be just outside the door, and to take all the time they needed.

It was like they were saying goodbye to a family member before being carted off to jail.

Another nod to the parents and she was out the door, clicking it shut quietly behind her. Leaving them, Sam and Dean, alone, with two complete strangers.

A moment of silence stretched, the couple clearly unsure of what to say, Sam and Dean unwilling to say anything.

Dean hated silence. It made him feel like he was going to jump out of his skin, made every noise that followed too loud and too much. The longer the moment, the worse it was.

If it went on for long enough, whether a pause in a conversation or an awkward first meeting, it felt wrong to break the silence. Then he’d be talking to loud and the other person wouldn’t be talking and he’d just make things even worse and - 

“It’s very nice to finally meet you two,” the mother gushed, a genuine smile on her face. “We’ve been having meetings with your doctors and Pamela; it’s great to be able to put a face to the names.”

Sam smiled back at her, hands twisting nervously in his lap.

Dean did not smile.

He’d heard all the horror stories about the foster system, about children put in homes of people who’d gotten away with too much, of the police being notified a little too late.

And sure, the home, the childhood they were coming from wasn’t exactly a walk in the park -  _ really, a stroll through Hell _ \- but there were still horrors they hadn’t faced with John. He wasn’t about to trust these people blindly, because they have generic smiles and regular jobs and a white fucking picket fence - 

So did many of the horrible people in the world.

The father -  _ Paul  _ \- looked a little unnerved at his lack of reaction, Dean staring the pair of them down while they groped around for something else to say.

Sam saved them from their own fate, squeezing Dean’s ankle again, a little harder this time. “Do you have any kids? We weren’t told.”

Paul was the one who smiled and responded this time, animated as he launched into speech.

They had two children of their own. A son, Jaden, who was Dean’s age and played baseball on a year round club team. A daughter, Elle, who was Sam’s age and could beat everyone on their block in a pie eating contest.

It was the perfect match for the two of them. Another kid in the house their age, a way to ease into the drastic changes in their life. At least he figures that’s what Pamela and the doctors thought.

The pair of them had also fostered several children before them, many with bad past experiences, serving as the bridge to a permanent home for them.

Even with a good reputation, recommended by the system, trusted by Dr. Thompson, he was still going to be careful.

So as they kept talking, straying from their children to their jobs, Dean watched them. He watched them and looked for any tells, anything that raised a red flag. And he didn’t stop watching them, even as nothing was wrong, even as they smiled and talked to Sam for over an hour.

And he didn’t trust them.

__________________

Dr. Thompson had never had a patient like Dean.

He was intensely loyal to his brother, wanting to be aware of every change with his condition, when he was the one in more danger of suffering from permanent damage. 

She could see in every move, every glance he made, who he trusted and who he didn’t. There was a certain way he’d act if he was trying to suss you out, to see what you’d do. He’d be brash, making comments and remarks he  _ knew _ were a little too insensitive - not to hurt your feelings on purpose, but to see how much of it you could take.

And how much it took before you got angry and did something that would send off warning bells in his head.

Dr. Thompson knew she was one of the few he trusted. So was Minerva, one of the senior nurses and best suited for a rare situation like this. She couldn’t tell if he was comfortable with Lindsey, the younger nurse assigned to his care, for she hadn’t spent enough time around the two of them.

She did know, though, that he did not trust the Turners, not one bit.

She’d watched through the blinds from the hallway, knowing that she couldn’t do anything to help; it was Dean who’d choose to trust them and no one could choose for him.

She could see it in the way he looked at them, like prey evaluating their predator, calculating how fast he’d have to run to get his brother away from them safely. She could see it in the way he hesitated before shaking the offered hands from the couple, as they readied to leave.

She could see it now, as Dean sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in clothes recovered from the house he’d stayed in, his hands clenched on the sheets as they went over the last checkup before he left, going to live a new life with a new family.

“Do you think they’re okay?” She was jolted from her thoughts when Dean spoke, voice soft, looking away from her as he waited for a response.

He was scared, she realized. Scared that this chance was a fluke, a mistake that couldn’t possibly be true.

Thankfully, Dr. Thompson had an answer.

“Yes.” She was grateful when her voice stayed steady and strong, worried she was as she considered how these fears could have developed. “I’ve met with them several times over the years, when they fostered other children.”

When she saw he didn’t look convinced, she leaned a little closer to him, gently laying a hand on his shoulder. Doctor to patient relationship be damned, this boy was scared and she was going to help him.

“They are good people, really good people.” She smiled, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder as she tried to convince him. “This is real. There is nothing off about them. If there was, they would not be allowed to take in the two of you, let alone foster anyone.”

Surprisingly, it seemed to help.

Dean didn’t seem to be the type of person to blindly believe whatever an adult said, so she was flattered that he trusted her enough to listen to her.

“Thanks doc.” Then he grinned at her, all traces of worry washed away.  _ Another mask. _ “You know Batman, don’t you.”

As she stood up, stepping back, she threw a wink his way. “That would be Dr. Thompkins, though I have seen him in passing.”

He laughed at her response, the tension in his shoulders loosening a bit at her response. She waved as she backed from the room, the boys’ social worker coming in as she left.

Dr. Thompson wasn’t the praying type, but now she sent one up, hoping with all her heart that it wouldn’t go overlooked.

_ Please, please let this be the home for them. Please let this be their happily ever after. With all that they’ve gone through, they deserve a happy ending. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I have put out like 2 chapters this week (feels so long ago). Weird. Don't usually do that, kinda nice.
> 
> Hope y'all liked it!
> 
> Lemme know what you thought!!
> 
> Safe safe and stay healthy (yay stuff is opening back up where I live) (I get to dye my hair again)


	12. White Picket Fence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all!! Got another chapter up :D
> 
> Had a bit of a writing block for this one, but I got through it pretty well.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!!
> 
> Many thanks for your awesome comments!!

The house looked like something out of a commercial, two stories tall, yellow paint with white trim, a green lawn stretching out in front of it. A porch dominated the entire front of the building, going from corner to corner, a swing seat on one end, a stable and set of chairs on the other.

There was a tall maple tree to the left of the lawn, a soccer ball on top of its roots, another soccer ball in the driveway where a pair of cars sat, a tan truck and a prius.

_ A prius. _

It was almost laughably normal, the street quiet as Pamela’s car pulled to a stop in front, carefully parallel parking against the sidewalk. Sam sat next to him, both of them in the backseat of the car.

He could tell his brother was nervous, Sam’s leg bouncing an erratic rhythm as they sat there. Dean wished he could offer some sort of reassurance, promise that everything was going to be okay, that they were safe.

But he couldn’t. 

He didn’t  _ know _ if everything was okay, if this place could be the happy home their social worker had promised it would be.

Instead, he gave his brother a quick squeeze on the shoulder, shaking him a little when he didn’t look up at him. “Hey, Sam.” He pitched his voice low, Pamela rustling around in the front seats, likely for some paperwork she needed finished. “I’ve got you.”

That was all he could give, the only surety in the whirlwind of change they were inside of. 

Sam seemed to think it was enough though, forcing a faint smile onto his face and nodding, a whispered “I know” before he opened his car door, shutting it behind him as he got out.

Dean joined him quickly, opening the trunk and pulling out the two bags nestled inside, not giving Sam a chance to grab them. It seemed that the feds cared enough to grab what clothes and belongings survived their escape from the Impala and house, packing them into a pair of duffle bags, much better quality than what they’d had before.

He ignored Sam’s outstretched hand, instead turning to Pamela as she exited the car, beeping it locked, a folder held loosely in her hand. 

“Nice place they’ve got here,” he says, trying so hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but failing before the first word is out. “You think they got a golden retriever too?”

Pamela smiled at him, used to his remarks by now, with all the meetings and phone calls they’d had over the two weeks since her first visit. “I’m sure if you asked, they’d get you one.”

She, on the other hand, manages to keep the sarcasm from her voice, a slight smirk on the edges of her lips, knowing she won this round.

Dean only snorts to himself, still carefully ignoring Sam’s quiet requests to carry his own bag in -  _ because, damn it, Sam got hurt too and he knows his brother is pretending those bruises and sprained wrist are fine but they’re not _ \- as he steps onto the sidewalk.

The curtains inside the house are drawn back, an excited face peering out of them that makes Dean stop in his tracks, going stiff and careful for a moment, before deliberately relaxing.

Can’t show weakness - it’s new territory after all, and he doesn’t know if they’re really welcome yet.

Pamela doesn’t seem to notice, but Sam does, of course he does, and comes up behind him, footstep crunching on the gravel pathway as they stride up to the house, his hand coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder for the briefest of moments before pulling away.

They barely wait five seconds after Pamela knocks, the door flung open by a girl -  _ the daughter, Elle _ \- an excited shout of “They’re here!” as she beckons them inside. 

Dean doesn’t move, Sam stock still behind him, as footsteps sound behind the girl, Paul and Amy rounding the corner of the short entryway, pulling to a stop just a few feet from the door.

Pamela had already stepped into the house, a backward glance turning into a concerned look when she sees that neither have followed, their eyes trained on the parents. “Guys, you can come on in.”

At least she’s casual about it, not pointing out their blaring lyrics obvious hesitation, a last ditch attempt at not living with these people, these  _ strangers,  _ who they’re just expected to _ trust - _

A nudge at Dean’s back is what finally propels him into movement, stepping quickly inside, the family before them backing away, the daughter leaving the room, likely to retreat to wherever that window was. 

It’s only when Paul and Amy have stopped at the end of the room, just barely inside it at all, that Dean clears the doorway for Sam, not taking his eyes from the adults for a second.

Just cause he’s walking into this blind doesn’t mean he’s gonna ask for an extra blindfold.

If they note his hesitancy -  _ and they do,  _ they’re  _ not blind _ \- they don’t say a word, Amy offering a smile and wave to the room beyond. “Why don’t you put those bags down and join us in the living room.”

The first part was aimed at Dean, the too - light duffle bags landing on the floor with a thump, tucked against the wall.

The parents led the way through the adjacent doorway, Pamela following directly after, while Dean stayed a few feet back, keeping Sam slightly behind him. Thankfully, his little brother didn’t protest.

He didn’t want to make a scene, at least not the moment they got there, about how  _ he _ was going in front, because god help him, he wasn’t going to  _ let _ Sam gets hurt and if he wasn’t more cautious around them - 

Anyway, the point was, Sam didn’t protest.

In the living room waited the two children, Jaden and Elle, perched on the edge of a gray sofa, coffee table strewn with magazines and drink coasters before them.

Great.

That’s awesome. Now, not only does he have to not act hostile around the parents -  _ not his parents, complete strangers that he’s talked to less than he’s talked to that one waitress back in South Dakota _ \- he also has to make nice with their kids.

Their kids, who he and Sam will be living with for the rest of their lives as minors.

One the other side of the coffee table sat two armchairs, one of which Pamela sat in, Paul and Amy migrating to the couch as they joined their kids. Dean quickly moved Sam in front of him, nudging him towards the remaining seat despite his protests.

Well, nonverbal protests. It’s not hard to tell that Sam is angry with his hunched shoulders and tense arms, the way he snaps a glance back at Dean every time he nudges him closer to the chair. 

Dean ignores him. Sam sits.

Their social worker is on her feet in an instant, an apologetic look already on her face. “Oh, I hadn't realized that! Here Dean, you can take this one -”

“I’m fine standing.” His voice came out much harsher than he’d meant it to. 

Well, he’d meant it, he just hadn’t meant to vocalize it. 

Seeing Sam’s wince, he tried to make up for it, waving off Pamela as she remained standing. “Really, I’m sorry, I’d prefer to stand.” He forced a smile. “The drive was long and I want to stretch my legs out.”

That was a lie. Two hours was hardly any time; he wasn’t even sore from sitting in a tiny Corolla for that long.

The adults seemed to buy it, Pamela offering a smile, the parents relaxing a little more from where they sat on the couch. There was a moment of silence, the gathered people unsure of what to say.

_ Do I have to say something? _

_...I really don’t want to say something. _

Thankfully, it was only a second more before their social worker took the lead again, pulling out her folder and various papers, pages and pages stapled together.

It was enough to make even Paul, a guy who spent his days  _ surrounded  _ by paper, pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, pulling out a pen and grabbing one of the packets.

“Why don’t you guys head to the kitchen, get a snack or something.” Paul grimaced at the work before him, waving a hand in his kids’ direction. “Leave us to the paperwork; I’m sure Sam and Dean are hungry.”

The son - _Jaden, gotta remember that, can’t ask someone you’re living with what their_ _name is_ \- didn’t waste a second, jump to his feet and beckoning the two of them towards him, before his sister even had the chance to get to her feet.

He could too, obviously, feel the awkwardness that was rising with every passing second.

This time, Dean nudged Sam in front of him, putting himself between the parents and his brother as they turned their backs to the adults.

It was a precaution, but one he believed was necessary, at least for the time being.

The siblings ahead of them were already at the kitchen counters, an island separating them from Sam and Dean. 

Jaden was smiling, and it didn’t look forced. “So, what do you guys like for snacks?”

Dean shrugged; he’d eat about anything if he was hungry. Sam, on the other hand, already had his eyes locked on one box, hesitant to ask.

“Lucky Charms it is, then!” Elle had pulled it down from the shelf where it resided, already grabbing four little plastic bowls, spoons following soon after.

Sam was already grinning, words tumbling from his mouth as he watched her open the box and put the cereal. “I’ve only had it a couple times before; dean would always grab it for us if we had the money. I remember there was this one time -”

And just like that, as if sugar and marshmallows unlock the secrets of the soul, Sam if off, spinning a story about his tenth birthday.

Dean remembered that one.

John had been out of town for a week or two, leaving the pair of them with a hundred bucks, a motel room, and a promise not to go anywhere unless absolutely necessary.

Dean had found the local bar turned diner, a pool table and darts board and pretty much everything else he needed to turn the hundred into two, then four, before the manager noticed him and kicked him out.

It had been raining as he walked to the grocery store, Sam safe at the motel, likely finishing up whatever book he was infatuated with, leaving Dean to finally have a chance to surprise him.

The little store had had everything he’d needed. Hot chocolate packets and disposable cups, a pint of ice cream and plastic spoons, a pie and a box of Lucky Charms cereal.

He’d forgone wrapping the “gifts”, it wasn’t like it was needed, Sam was just going to eat it as soon as he got it anyways, but he’d bought a gift bag and stuffed the food in as he walked, tucking the miniature pie into the pocket of his hoodie.

His brother had smiled bigger than Dean had seen in months, jumping up and hugging him as he laughed.

It was one of the best memories he had to this day, how they’d spent the night watching old cartoons on the shitty tv, the ice cream passed between them, discarded cups and plastic containers filling the trash can in the little room.

The four of them were called back to the living room all to soon, empty bowls left on the counters.

Paul and Amy sat on the couch, all the papers they’d had before them stacked and filed away, the folder on the coffee table bulging. Pamela stood to the side of their seat, leaving the two armchairs completely free.

Leaving Dean no choice but to join Sam as he sat in the one on the right.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like sitting or that he didn’t trust them and their chairs fell under that umbrella, but sitting meant being slower if they had to get out of there quickly.

Sitting, in an armchair -  _ not even a regular one he could be out of in less than a second _ \- meant making his back defenseless, meant taking away some of his peripheral vision, meant Sam was in one too and couldn’t get away as fast -

Dean breathed.

He sat.

That, of course, meant it was time to discuss whatever the hell Pamela had called them back to here for. Awesome, getting better by the second.

“So,” she began. “I just want to let you know, what we need to discuss isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually a really good, very important thing that you should be in the room to talk about.”

It was almost as if -  _ it’s mind boggling, hang in there folks _ \- she could tell how anxious the two of them were, Sam’s feet tapping the floor while Dean sat stock still, tension coiling in both of their forms.

“You’re going to be enrolled in the local middle school and high school tomorrow, meaning you’ll start classes this Monday.”

Oh.

Oh, that wasn’t bad at all.

Teachers, friends, even well meaning parents, they always got the wrong idea about Dean and school. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, it was that he had no  _ time _ for it.

Sam aced everything, throwing himself into school with an enthusiasm Dean would never be able to match, so excited about every class and every new thing he learned. People always assumed he was the smart one, if only because of how much talked about it.

Of course, Dean’s report cards and teacher’s notes didn’t exactly give the mental image of a student who wanted to learn, with his sleeping in classes and missing them entirely, while Sam came to every single one.

But he figured -  _ and figured correctly _ \- it would be more concerning if a teacher had to deal with a student bleeding out from whatever new training exercise his father had devised than one that was asleep.

“On one condition.” This was something he’d thought about when he imagined his wildest dreams, the hope that they’d one day get out; and they had. So he intended to follow through with it. “We get to change our last names.”

“To what?” At least Pamela didn’t suggest to change it to  _ Turner _ or some shit like that. He wasn’t sure he could have handled that calmly, what with all that was happening in the last month.

“Campbell.” He can practically feel his social worker gearing up for another question -  _ one he really doesn’t want to answer.  _ Instead, he gives the clearest reason he can think of, trying not to open things he doesn't think he’ll ever be able to talk about. “It was our mother’s last name. Before she met our - before she met John.”

Dean had never talked to Sam about this, never asked him, but he knew his brother would agree.

“That can be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter!!
> 
> Please lemme know what you think!!
> 
> Hope your summers are going great and (this is very important, hang on) HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!


	13. To Starting Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all!! Hope you’re all doing good!!
> 
> This chapter is shorter than usual, sorry about that. I just felt it was a good place to end it where I did.
> 
> Hope you like the nex chapter!!

They were given separate rooms. Which was...nice.

It was. It was nice to finally have a space from Sam, to finally have his _own_ room in a house that they weren’t going to leave behind in a week or two.

It was nice, it just wasn’t what Dean wanted right now.

The two bedrooms were right next to each other. Each had a twin bed in a wooden frame, a small bedside dresser next to it, a lamp on top. A dresser stood across from the bed, undecorated and bare, a bookshelf to the immediate right of it.

As Amy had explained, they hadn’t been sure how Sam and Dean wanted to decorate their rooms and they would stop by the local Walmart the next day to get things like mirrors, comforter covers, and any posters they wanted to put on the walls.

Dean decided not to bring up the separate rooms issue; he wasn’t sure how far they could stretch the parents’ hospitality. 

Sam seemed to be thinking the same, quietly nodding along to Amy’s words and shooting glances at Dean all the while. Even if his brother would talk to their kids, could eat in their kitchen, he was still as wary as Dean was. He just was better at hiding it.

They were told that they had an hour until dinner, which was a family meal and everyone would be eating at.

_Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live in a storybook?_

After that, Amy went back downstairs, where both her husband and her kids waited in the living room. It seemed that she had some sense of when to give space and when to stay; for every second that she hovered in the hallway, Dean’s anxiousness went up another notch.

Pamela had left after all the papers had been gathered and returned to her, now filled with signatures and addresses on the blank lines. She drove away after a quick reminder that she’d return the following day, as Dean had been prescribed a low level pain killer for his remaining wounds - _like that bullet wound, so pesky, those bullets_ \- and it hadn’t been ready before they’d left the hospital.

For now, he’d survive perfectly well on a few Advil. So long as the almost-healed scabs on his back and the stitches in his leg didn’t open again, he’d be fine. The burns on his wrists were practically healed as well, bandages wrapping them loosely; he hadn’t wanted to answer the questions the family would inevitably have about them.

Once Amy had returned downstairs, they were left to their own devices, their bags placed at the foot of their beds. Dean was quick to unpack his, after all, it wasn’t like there was a lot inside.

A few band t-shirts that had seen better days, some socks and underwear, a pair of jeans and a couple flannels, his jacket already on his shoulders. The few books he had went on the shelf, the titles well worn and pages dogeared from all the times he’d read them.

The little envelope at the bottom of his bag went in the drawer of the nightstand, a couple magazines piled on top of it.

His own things dealt with, Dean headed to Sam’s room, shutting the door behind him as he entered the hallway. The doors didn’t have any locks on them, likely a safety hazard, but he still wasn’t about to leave his door open for whoever wanted to look in.

Sam was sitting on his bed, bag still zipped and unpacked, his elbow resting on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean only paused to knock on the doorframe before entering the room, knowing his brother would appreciate the warning, even if he heard him come in.

“Sammy? You doing okay?” He kept his voice quiet, soft.

Dean could see the moment Sam pulled himself together, lifting his head up and purposely relaxing, leaning back on the bed, supported by his arms. The smile on his face was anything but relaxed. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just, you know, hate unpacking.”

Sam had always been weird about that. He loved staying in one place long enough that John let them unpack, because that meant _friends_ and _school_ and everything they hoped for in every town they went to.

The actual action of unpacking, though, Sam never liked to do it. Dean didn’t know exactly why, Sam had never told him, but he had a few guesses.

Unpacking made it feel permanent, made it feel like the house they were staying in was _theirs,_ not some quick rent. It made it feel like they had a proper home, with food cooked on a stove, not warmed up in a microwave.

Then, without fail, they’d repack and move on. Every single time. 

The two of them knew, logically, that there was never a chance of staying somewhere forever, of John finally stopping, but it was impossible to tamp down that hope that bubbled up each time.

It was with those thoughts, not wanting Sam to have to feel that way, to feel like his dreams were coming true as they were crashing down around him, Dean opened the duffel bag for him, pulling out the first book on the top and tossing it at Sam.

“Here, one of your girly books, take your mind off it.” 

The sneer that Sam gave him was impressive. “It’s the Wizard of Oz and it’s the _original._ ”

“That supposed to scare me?” One could never let their younger sibling know that they’d won, not unless they wanted to be taunted until their dying days.

“It’s supposed to remind you that it was yours first and you read it to me all the time.” Sam smiled at Dean’s spluttering, the dramatics amped up a notch as he fapped his hands in his brother’s direction. “You love it.”

“...Whatever.”

One can occasionally let their younger sibling win, but only in the most dire of circumstances. And seeing Sam smile again at his admission, Dean decided the circumstances had been dire enough.

Sam’s things took less time to unpack, already neat and orderly inside the bag, already folded and stacked. The dresser drawers looked practically empty filled with the few shirts he had.

More books and a model airplane went onto the shelf, a pack of pencils on top of the nightstand. _Maybe,_ Dean thought with hope. _Sam might pick up that drawing habit again._

According to John, drawing was a skill that was completely useless in “real life”.

With forty minutes left until dinner time, Dean flopped backwards, arms flung out and legs sprawling, onto his brother’s bed. Sam let out a squeak of protest, a hand smacking Dean in the shoulder as he landed.

“Dean! Get off, you’re crushing me.” He could indeed feel his younger brother’s leg trapped under his thigh, his other hand between Dean’s back and the bed.

“I am?” He forced all the light and cheerfulness he could muster into his voice, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, you’re so small I didn’t feel it.”

An elbow was thrown into his side and the book smacked him in the face. The truce lasted no longer. With that, he rolled over to his side, bringing the pillow from the head of the bed with him, using his momentum to smash it into Sam’s face.

Those forty minutes passed much quicker than he’d thought they would.

_________________

It was Elle who called them downstairs to eat, tentatively knocking on Sam’s door - _they’d heard her try Dean’s door first_ \- before opening it a crack and popping her head inside. 

Wrestling match - _could it even be called that?_ \- long since over, Sam was sitting up, reading, while Dean alternated between flipping through a magazine and staring at the ceiling. It was a very interesting ceiling, after all, with the way the paint had dried.

“Hey guys,” she said, smiling wide and waving behind the door. “Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry. The bathroom is across the hall, don’t forget to wash your hands!”

After Dean nodded back at her and started sitting up, she drew back, walking down the hallway further, stopping to knock at another door and repeat her message.

Elle was heading down the stairs by the time both of them were walking to the bathroom, Jaden washing his hands inside. He, too, greeted them with a smile and “hey guys” before drying his hands and following his sister.

Dean could, honestly, say he’d never had anyone but his brother smile at him this much in one day. And wasn’t that a depressing thought.

The two of them washed their hands in silence, the soap smelling like _allergies_ flowers. It was the cheap, liquid kind, a field of tulips on the front of the plastic bottle. Way better than the bar soap from the motels they’d stayed at, when the motels had had it.

The towel he dried his hands on was dark blue and very soft, obviously new, likely put up to make a good impression on new arrivals. Even so, Dean couldn’t resist stroking it one last time.

It was a nice fucking towel.

Sam was waiting at the end of the hallway, just before the stairs, right out of the sight of the others. “Ready?” He asked his question quietly, softly.

“Yeah.”

Dean was ready. He was ready to give this family a chance, to try and get a chance at life when he’d never had one before.

They descended the stairs together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y’all enjoyed the story.
> 
> Lemme know what you thought!! (or if I made any mistakes, I wanna know)
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!!


	14. Hands (Shaking, Shaking, Shaking)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all!
> 
> I knows its been a minute since I updated, things have been going on with my computer so I haven’t been able to use it to write. Thankfully, most of this chapter was already written, so I finished it in my phone (which I hate writing on, which is why it took so long)
> 
> Hope you like the new chapter!!

The sight that greeted the two of them was something out of a story, in Dean’s eyes, something you read in books.

The dining room table was set, a light yellow tablecloth and flower patterned placemats covering it, a differently patterned napkin at each seat, each napkin having a metal ring around it, their names written in permanent marker. 

A vase of flowers, kinds Dean didn’t know the name of, rested in the middle of it all.

There were six chairs, two on either long side of the table, with one at each head, clearly meant for the parents. The family of the house had already sat down, leaving two seats open for Sam and Dean. 

Their seats were next to each other, on the same side of the table. Dean was sitting closer to Paul, leaving his brother to sit near Amy, a strategic arrangement he didn’t miss. He also didn’t miss how their seats were closest to the extended doorway, making for an easy exit.

Whoever had set the table, they had been very smart about it.

Along with taking the parents into account, the person who’d chosen their seats had also kept in mind the differences of the two children. Jaden sat across from Dean, his sister next to him, putting Sam in what he’d judge as the safest place.

Closest to the door, farthest from the father -  _ the men _ \- with the quickest way out.

Call Dean sexist if you want, go ahead. He wasn’t. He’d just had much better experience with women then he’d had with men and his thoughts shaped around that.

Besides, would you trust a man, a stranger, the new father-figure in your life, as soon as you met them?

Amy beckoned them forward, smiling from her chair, as they stared. Realizing that they must have paused in the doorway of the room, Dean took a few steps inside, careful to keep Sam behind him. 

She didn’t break eye contact as he watched her, watched her and her husband and her kids, before he moved to his seat, Sam following quietly to his own. Amy only continued to smile, softly, as they sat down, as the family began to serve themselves to food set on the table.

The  _ food, _ yes, the food.

That was what really completed the storybook picture, that made Dean pause for so long where they’d stood.

A plate, heaped with green beans that had been cooked with garlic and butter, was passed around, a deep bowl of mashed potatoes following after it. Another plate -  _ really, a plate that big? A platter. _ \- was full of chicken, legs and wings and thighs, likely cooked in the oven before they arrived.

Dean couldn’t stop himself from smiling, faint though it was, as he served himself, passing the plates of food clockwise, to Paul, sitting at his left.

He was just about to dig in when he felt a light touch on his arm, fingers resting gently on his wrist. The way he jerked back was a little too sharp to be casual, to be calm, and he ignored the looks thrown his way by the kids across from him.

Sam was a steady presence to his right as Dean turned towards the person who’d touched him, careful to lean forward just enough, so Sam was blocked by his body.

Paul looked back at him, his hand still hovering in the place it had rested on his wrist, fingers curled slightly, like he hadn’t quite realized what he’d done. A pause and he pulled his arm back, tucking it under the table and opening his mouth to speak.

Dean ignored the jackrabbitting of his heart, the shaking of his hands, as he met the man’s eyes and readied to listen to whatever he had to say, whatever  _ apology _ he had to give.

Pity, exactly what he didn’t want.

They must have shown on his face, his thoughts, because Paul didn’t offer an excuse, didn’t ask Dean if he was okay. He only smiled slightly -  _ apologetically _ \- before gesturing as Dean’s sleeves. “Don’t forget to roll those up. It’s not fun to drag them through your mashed potatoes, I would know.”

He wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore, wasn’t wearing the flannel that was underneath it. Just a grey long sleeved shirt, his amulet safely tucked against his skin.

Dean took a deep breath, deliberately slow and quiet, before nodding at the man and pushing his sleeves to his elbows.

The rest of dinner passed without incident, without another flinch and sudden silence. Dean chose to ignore the way his hands shook so bad he could barely hold his fork, even as his heart slowed back to normal.

Then came dessert.

_ Apparently, _ when there’s guests or a special occasion or a holiday or literally anything that can be called special, Amy will bake a pie. A cherry pie, served with vanilla bean ice cream -  _ not french vanilla, take notes kids _ \- on the side.

You know, Dean had been almost hopeful that there would be no real emotional moment today, no little thing that would set him off, not with everything that had happened in only a few weeks. Honestly, he deserved a break.

He pretended that the tears pricking his eyes didn’t exist, and blinked them away as quickly as he could.

He kept it together -  _ for Sam, for this family, for himself _ \- until he was halfway through his piece, until Jaden smiled over at Amy, pie speared in his fork, lifted up in a mock salute. “This is amazing, mom. No one makes it better than you.”

Dean missed the next piece of pie he tried to stab, the metal tongs of his fork clanking against the plate. 

Carefully, ever so carefully, he set his utensil aside, next to the plate, and pulled his napkin from his lap, setting it beside his fork. Just as slowly, he took his hands from where they lay on the table and put them under it, clenched into fists. It didn’t stop the tremors.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is soft, that special tone he uses whenever Dean got upset, whenever a touchy subject got brought up. Sam didn’t need to ask if he was okay; he already knew the answer. His brother just needed to know how not-okay he was.

“Just...just give me a second.” He swallowed, hard, heart pounding in his ears. Didn’t dare look up, not wanting to meet the gazes likely directed at him from around the table.

“What’s wrong?” And there it is. It was Amy that had spoken, concern clear in her words. Sam shifted in the chair next to him and he could see his brother turn towards him in his peripheral vision.

“Nothing’s  _ wrong. _ ” Maybe if he said it enough times, it would come true. Dean didn’t bother trying to soften his voice. “Nothing’s wrong; I’m fine, okay? Give me a second.”

When someone says “One second”, they do not literally mean one second. They mean “Leave me the fuck alone and wait”. It seemed that Paul did not understand this.

A hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

A hand was on his shoulder, an adult’s hand, his  _ father’s _ hand was on his shoulder and it was holding him in place and he couldn’t run and couldn’t get away and he was stuck stuck stuck and where was Sam he needed to find Sam he needed to save Sam -

And he was up and out of his chair and it was falling behind him and clattering to the ground -

And he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe  _ he couldn’t breathe _ -

Dean’s back hit a wall -  _ trap trap trap trap _ \- and his knees buckled beneath him, sending him sliding to the ground.

He didn’t curl in on himself, didn’t shield his face with his arms, John hated it when he did that. He hated that his son was a coward and useless and couldn’t even take a punch.

Instead, Dean held his hands up, palms facing away from him, arms straight out, and opened his eyes, blinking past the tears.

John was going to be so mad. Dean was crying and he was shaking and he  _ couldn’t stop shaking _ \- 

“S - Sorry, I’m sorry, Dad - I’m so sorry. Please leave Sam alone, please don’t - I screwed up, okay?  _ I _ screwed up, leave him out of it.” The words tumbled from his mouth, so fast he could barely keep up with himself, but he had to get them out, he couldn’t let Sam get hurt - “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

Someone, one of the blurred faces that hovered in front of him, their words like white noise to his ears, moved closer, just a step, a step too close they were too close he couldn’t breathe -

The whimper that escaped his mouth, building in the back of his throat and leaking through, was something he wasn’t proud of. The flinch, his shoulders slamming against the wall behind him, was worse.

_ God, John was gonna be so mad he was so angry he was going to hurt Dean he was going to kill Sam _ -

“- breathe with me, Dean, that’s all you gotta do. In with me, out with me.” The voice sounded like it was speaking through layers and layers plastic, through water and waves and wind, indistinct and warped. “In with me, out with me.”

Almost unconsciously, his own breath began to follow the pattern, in and out, in and out, not too fast, not too slow.

“I’m gonna put a hand on your wrist, okay?” The voice said. Fingers, light and warm, wrapped around his wrist,  _ wrapped around him  _ \- he couldn’t get away, he couldn’t get out, not  _ ever, _ never never never never -

“- We’re safe, Dean, we’re safe. You got out, you got us out -”

_ They could never get out get away get safe, always John, always always always _ -

“In with me, out with me. In with me, out with me.” The voice was soft, a little clearer than before, a solid tether to the world around him. “There was this one time, in fifth grade, where my teacher made us do a group project. She assigned the groups and there was this one girl -”

As the person - as his brother spoke, Dean allowed himself to hang on to his words, slowly drawing himself back to the dining room, Sam’s fingers giving a constant pressure on his wrist, steadying him.

Dean listened to Sam ramble on about the awful poster his group made, the presentation he had to give to his class and teacher. 

The wall was solid against his back, the wood floor cool through his jeans. One of his feet, the left one, was propped up on the back of the fallen chair, the wooden backrest digging into his ankle. 

His right hand laid in his lap, his other hanging at his side, where Sam sat, still telling his story, still holding his wrist. 

As his breathing steadied and slowed -  _ not all the way, not calm, not scared either _ \- he twisted his arm in Sam’s grip, turning it so he could clasp Sam’s wrist in return, squeezing gently as he sat up straighter. Moving his legs so his feet lay flat on the ground was a momentous effort, far more draining than it should have been.

Dean kept his gaze fixed on his lap as he spoke, unwilling to look any of the family in the eyes. “Thanks, Sam. Sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to.”

Surprisingly, it was Jaden that responded, his voice gentle and soft. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, nothing at all,” he said. “Are you okay?”

He couldn’t really stop the laugh that bubbled up inside of him, borderline hysterical as it was. “Yeah, I’m fine.” It didn’t sound at all convincing, so he added: “I’ll be fine.”

Sam stood from where he crouched at his side, a hand dangling down in an offer to pull him up. Dean took it, his free hand going behind him, to the wall, bracing himself in case he stumbled. He didn’t want to fall onto Sam, after all.

When he finally dared to look up, to look the family in the eyes, to see their reactions -  _ disgust, fear, pity _ \- he was surprised to find them all still in their seats, still at the dining table.

As if he’d fallen, he’d scrambled to get away, and Sam had told them to stay where they were. Both Amy and Jaden’s chairs were crooked, tilted away from their places, farther back from the table than the rest. Like they’d gone to get up and help, and had been told to stay put.

They watched him, concern in their eyes, as he straightened up completely, hand and arm shaking where he’d planted it in the wall.

“Sorry about...ruining dessert. It was great, by the way.” Never mind that there’s still a half eaten piece on his plate, more left on those of the others. 

“Please, don’t apologize.” It’s calming, the way Amy speaks, more soothing than she has any right to be. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, and you don’t have to answer, but can you tell us what set that off?”

Tell them? Tell them why he’s upset, give them something to use, to hurt him with? Dean didn’t think so.

It must have shown on his face, the answer that was building in his mind -  _ fuck no, not telling you shit _ \- because Amy elaborated, still not moving from her seat. “We just want to know what we can do to prevent that from happening again.”

“Prevent what from happening again?” Dean knew he was being childish, stubborn. He would call his words a test, if asked.

A test, to see if they even  _ knew,  _ even understood what had just happened, if they could say it out loud and not shy away from it.

“A panic attack.” Surprisingly, it was Elle who’d answered this time; she hadn’t spoken throughout the whole ordeal.

“It was a combination of things that triggered it.” Sam was speaking before Dean could stop him, still standing beside him, though he’d positioned himself slightly in front of Dean, as if to protect him.

They’d passed the test, sure, he’d give them that. But that didn’t mean Dean wanted to go on and spill his life story to answer their questions.

Short of clamping a hand over Sam’s mouth, he couldn’t stop his little brother from answering for him.

“The dessert, honestly, was one of them,” Sam said, continuing quickly when all he got back was confused faces. “Our mom used to make that all the time. That wasn’t really what triggered it, but she’s a topic we don’t really talk about and it put Dean on edge.”

Sam paused, likely waiting for any questions, before going on. “It was you grabbing him that set it off.” He nodded at Paul. He paused again, then said exactly Dean hadn’t wanted him to. “It reminded him of our dad. Of John.”

The gasps that rang around the room were yet another addition to the “shit I didn’t want to have to deal with” pile, joining the panic attack and all the emotional moments in the past half hour.

Of course, it was Paul who broke the moment of silence.

“Dean,” said Paul, making sure he had his attention before he went on. “I am very sorry. I should have thought about my actions and I should have respected your boundaries.”

The man looked so sincere, so apologetic that Dean couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t. 

So, as smoothly as he could, he nodded at the father, nodded to the rest of the family. He didn’t say a word as he left, walking softly and silently, even as he wanted to stomp and slam a door so hard it falls off its hinges.

The stairs didn’t creak under his feet; he was careful to place his feet on the edges, next to the wall, where they would make the least sound. 

Dean shut his bedroom door quietly behind him, turned the knob so it closed without a click. 

Not bothering to change, to take his jeans or shirt off, he crawled onto the bed, on top of the covers, and shut off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in near-complete darkness.

He laid there for what both felt like hours and seconds, his heart in his throat, as he fought to calm down.

There was a knock on his door.

It was the soft, double tap of the knuckles, customary to Sam. It was only a moment later when the door opened, just enough for his brother to slip inside, closing it again after him.

As if he knew exactly what Dean needed, Sam didn’t say a word. 

He didn’t ask if Dean was okay -  _ he wasn’t  _ \- he didn’t ask if Dean wanted to talk -  _ not really _ \- his brother just slipped off his socks before curling up next to him, back pressed to Dean’s side.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean felt himself relax, tension bleeding from his muscles as his brother’s warmth seeped into him.

A hand found its way to Sam’s hair, stroking softly, as they laid there. 

It was only hours later, when he was finally tired enough to sleep, did Dean notice that his hands had stopped shaking.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the story!!
> 
> Lemme know what you thought or any parts you liked :D
> 
> Stay healthy and stay safe!!


	15. Early Morning Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *glances at date of last update before adding new chapter*
> 
> *sheepishly smiles*
> 
> Shit, it’s been nearly a month? Heh heh...oops.
> 
> So I wrote like half of this last week and thEN A HEAT WAVE HIT. I cannot physically do anything productive when it’s 90 degrees inside my house. I’m sorry, I really tried, but I couldn’t do it. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!!
> 
> (The next one will be sooner, I promise)

There’s footsteps in the hallway. That’s what wakes Dean up; a person walking down the hall, steps soft and light.

A glance at the bedside clock, its digital numbers giving off a dim red light, showed that it was barely three in the morning, far too early for anyone to be up and moving around in a household like this one. 

The person outside Dean’s door continued to the end of the hall, descending the stairs even quieter than they’d been while walking, deftly avoiding any creaky steps. He listened as their footsteps faded out of earshot, careful to keep his body relaxed where it was pressed against Sam’s.

They’d had too much practice waking up quickly, at the smallest sign of trouble. If Dean was too tense, too still or breathing too quietly - _trying not to be noticed, not to draw attention to their previously sleeping forms_ \- Sam would wake from beside him and likely wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon.

That being said, there was no way Dean would be able to fall asleep again without finding out who, exactly, had gone downstairs and why. 

Carefully, ever so carefully, he withdrew his left arm from where it had somehow found its way under Sam’s head, unhooked his brother’s ankle from his, and sat up slowly. Every motion was as smooth as it could possibly be, his socked feet helping to scoot Dean to the end of the bed, jeans sliding over blankets and flannel behind him.

Even with all his caution, Dean had barely made it off the bed before Sam lifted his head, brows scrunching in confusion as he squinted at him, hair plastered on one side of his head while the rest stuck up in disarray.

“...Dean? What’re you doin’?” His brother’s voice was slurred and thick from sleep, though his eyes grew more alert with every second that passed. 

Thinking quickly, Dean crept back to the side of the bed, pulling back the covers on the side of the bed Sam wasn’t on, his other hand coming to rest on his brother’s shoulder as he gently pressed him back down. “I’m just going downstairs for a minute. Don’t worry, go back to sleep.”

Smoothly, he lifted Sam’s legs with one arm and pulled the rest of the blankets all the way down, clearing his brother’s ankles before he lowered Sam’s legs again, the only thing beneath him being the fitted sheet, instead of layers of quilts and well-worn Christmas blankets.

Dean had outright laughed the first time he’d seen the fabric peeking from beneath the outermost quilt, patterns of prancing reindeer and snowmen with smoking pipes covering it. Then sobered up rather quickly when he’d seen the faded embroidered initials at one corner: P. T.

These were family blankets, passed from parent to child, certainly not meant for the first pair of fucked up kids to come across them.

At least the blankets were warm.

Even with the sunny day before, the night had made the house cold, and Dean carefully tucked the covers around his brother, all the way up to shoulders, leaving his arms above them, just like Sam always preferred.

Sam was still watching him as he stepped back, stepped away from the bed. “I’m just gonna go downstairs for a minute,” he said again. “I’ll be back soon.”

That seemed to satisfy his brother enough that he closed his eyes, face gradually relaxing until he looked as he did when asleep, hair falling across his forehead and mouth slightly open.

_Quick to wake and quick to sleep. That should be their family motto._

_Wait, mottos are in latin. Then it would be..._ _Velox quod velox est somno excitare._

_Yeah. That sounded pretentious enough._

The bedroom door didn’t make a sound as Dean opened it, thank God. If it had creaked that early into his creep downstairs, he might have given up right then and there.

Instead, he took the stairs quietly, again sticking to the edges of the steps, as to minimize any shifting of the wood, and consequently, any creaks. The stairs were uncarpeted and though that made it harder for him to slip, carpet would’ve muffled his steps even further.

Sadly, you can’t win every round.

Dean wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to be so quiet, to be nearly silent as he crept towards the lower level. It wasn’t like anyone but the family would be down there, there were no hidden guests with nefarious plans in the attic or the cupboards that lined the halls. 

It was more for the familiarity of it, the ease that he fell into the sneaking with, feeling more like himself than he had since they’d arrived at the Turners’ house. And wasn’t that just plain pathetic.

The living room, the first room he saw from the bottom of the stairs, was empty. Not a thing out of place, not a lamp turned on or cushion shifted out of place. He would know; he’d essentially memorized the place as soon as they’d arrived.

There was the clink of glass on counter from the kitchen, the faint drip of the faucet making its way to where Dean stood, halfway to a crouch, in the entryway to the living room.

His heart pounded in his ears as he walked towards the kitchen, adrenaline making his hands twitch at his sides. It was all too similar to the times he’d hear a door slam and footsteps sound at whatever crappy house they were squatting in, prompting him to creep towards the silent rooms below, finding his father - _passed out, empty beer bottle_ \- or a body - _throat slit, eyes staring and staring and staring_ \- in the threshold.

A deep breath and a reminder - _we got out,_ I _got us out_ \- was what it took for him to step through the doorway, pivoting inside sharply from where he’d stood with his back against the other side of the wall, hands coming up slightly as he entered. 

“Jesus!” There was a yelp and a clatter, metal on metal, nearly making Dean jump as his eyes adjusted to how dark the kitchen was. 

Elle was perched on top of the counter, a glass of water and white container to her right, the spoon that had been in her hand inside the sink to her left. She had a hand on her chest while the other was behind her, where the knife rack sat, fingers resting on the handle of one of the smaller knives.

Smart.

“Expecting someone else?” Dean asked, pitching his voice soft and low, even as he stayed tense and in his stance. Her hand hadn’t yet moved from the knives.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone, actually.” Elle’s reply was breathless, eyes wide and chest heaving as she visibly fought to calm down. “What’re you down here for?”

“I could ask you the same,” he said. When all he got was a pair of rolled eyes in response, Dean relented, sighing as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “...I heard someone going down the stairs. I went to see who it was.”

It was Elle’s turn to sigh, eyes downcast, an embarrassed smile making its way onto her face. “Sorry for waking you up. Sometimes I get thirsty in the night and I wake up from it.” She gestured at the glass beside her, spoon now in hand.

Dean took a few hesitant steps into the kitchen, watching the girl on the counter as he neared. When she didn’t flinch or make to move away, he leaned against the counter next to her, nodding to the white container at her side. “What’s that?”

It didn’t have a label on it, though the edges had little gray smears, like the residue from a sticker as it slowly collects dust after being peeled away. 

“Oh!” Elle looked down at it, almost in surprise, as if she’d forgotten it was even there. “That’s a sort of flavoring; it’s called Tang. It’s better in hot water, it mixes faster and has a stronger flavor.” At the questioning look likely on Dean’s face, she added: “It tastes like citrus. Do you want some?”

_...It would be rude to turn it down, wouldn’t it?_

He didn’t particularly want to try some weird drink at ass-o’clock-in-the-morning, but he didn’t want to crush that hopeful expression that had been growing on Elle’s face. Dean nodded, scowling to himself as she turned away, grabbing a glass for him.

Dean needed to stay _strong._ Just because she had puppy-dog eyes that rivaled Sam’s, doesn’t mean that she was _his_ now.

Even as he told himself this, the protective glow in his chest grew with every second he spent in the kitchen with Elle.

He was thrown from his thoughts when the girl turned back triumphantly, two glasses of an orange drink in her hands, one held out to Dean as she took a sip from the other. Reluctantly, he accepted it, slowly bringing the cup to his lips before taking the smallest sip he could manage.

_Damn. That was actually pretty fucking good._

The revelation must have shown on his face, because Elle laughed - _softly, it was still nearly three in the morning_ \- and nodded at the drink. “Better than you thought, huh?”

“Much.”

That was the end of their conversation, the dim light from the windows and street light beyond providing just enough light to see the glasses in their hands and the face of the person beside them.

It took all of ten minutes for Dean finish his “Tang”, moving to gently set the cup in the sink, the clink barely audible. He’d unconsciously been doing things as quietly as possible, feet in their socks nearly silent and beats shallow, muted. It was a monumental effort to turn to Elle, still perched on the counter, and speak.

“I’m going back to bed.” Even the words leaving his mouth sounded too loud and sharp for the dark house around them. He barely held back his wince at the volume of the statement, never mind that it was hardly above a whisper. It was still too loud.

Elle nodded, smiling at him as he backed out of the room, offering a little wave before he turned, which he returned. The trip up back up the stairs was easier than before, the creaky spots slowly becoming more familiar and avoidable.

He hadn’t closed his bedroom door all the way behind him; better to sneak back inside with it open a crack. Dean paused at the doorway, ears straining for the sounds of shifting bodies or muted voices from behind the closed doors leading down the hall and heard nothing. All clear.

Sam was just as Dean had left him on the bed, though the pillow was now wrapped in his arms, a bear hug more suited for strangling someone than anything. 

The door shut quietly behind him, barely a click, as he released the doorknob and moved to join his brother under the covers. This time, he shucked off his outer shirts, pulling a softer one from the dresser top over his head as he moved throughout the room. Jeans were swapped for sweatpants, socks discarded next to the bed.

Getting under the covers was trickier than moving Sam under them, especially as he didn’t want to wake his brother in the process. Instead of pulling the covers away, Dean lifted them and slipped under, ignoring the twinges coming from his leg and back as he twisted and bent to get under them. It seemed that the tylenol had worn off.

If he was being realistic, the tylenol had worn off around dinner time and the pain had only gotten worse since them - _falling down, hitting the wall. Not great for injuries_ \- but that was besides the point.

Dean thought he’d succeeded in sneaking into bed after a moment of laying there, no movement coming from his brother besides a drawn out sigh as he settled into the mattress.

Then: “That was a lot longer than a minute.”

His little brother’s voice was so petulant and sleep muddled that Dean couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, a hand running through Sam’s hair. “Sorry about that. Got a little distracted.”

“All good?” It was something they’d asked each other plenty of times, whether it was checking the perimeter or making sure their father was out in the other room. There was the familiar wariness in Sam’s tone and Dean was quick to tamp it down.

“All good, let’s go to sleep.”

Even as he was the one to say it, Dean wasn’t able to relax and close his eyes until he heard footsteps climbing the stairs and heading back down the hallway, a door opening and closing as they faded away, Elle making her way into her bedroom.

A swat against his arm had Dean looking down at his brother, who’s eyes were still closed and arms still wrapped around the pillow - _it was fine, sleeping without one never bothered either of them_ \- though his grip was looser than before. “You have to go to bed too, now that you know she’s safe.”

Dean scoffed but didn’t protest as he closed his eyes, the blankets bunched around his chest.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if anyone is wondering, Tang is a real drink flavor thing. Every year I do a huge family reunion camping trip and one of the great aunts brings Tang drink mix. We hear water on those little portable stove things and then us younger ones gather round and get a cup (or two, if they drink the first one fast enough and there’s still hot water and no witnesses)
> 
> Also: Thank you CidSquid for thy inspiration for Dean and Elle’s interaction this chapter. That was from your comment ;)
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter!! Lemme know what you thought in the comments below!! Stay healthy and stay safe!!


	16. Waffles and Bandages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my original plan was to write this then post it in a week or so, cause my school starts next week and they’re making this year a helluva lot harder than last cause they have their shit together -
> 
> So anyways, I suck and have no self control. Here’s a brand new chapter. Merry Christmas.

Jaden was knocking on their door. Dean could tell who it was, that soft knock on the doorframe, two slow taps with three faster ones following after. 

There were just certain things you could tell about people without actually seeing it in action. If they’re annoying by the way that they walk, if they approve of a certain thing depending on how they look at it, and how they knock matches up with how they talk to you.

Jaden’s knock matched his personality pretty well. Softer spoken and kind, his knock wasn’t too loud; it didn’t scare you awake. Granted, Dean had woken at the first sound, as had Sam, but he appreciated the intent.

“Hey guys. Breakfast is downstairs.” Jaden’s voice was muffled through the wood of the door, but clear enough to be heard. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Dean waited until his footsteps receded, heading down the stairs, another pair thundering after him. Elle, likely very excited for whatever was for breakfast.

Pulling the blankets off the pair of them got Dean a groan in return from Sam, whose face was smashed in the mattress, having lost the comfy pillow called Older Brother. He didn’t share his younger brother’s sentiment; Sam’s head was bony as hell and he was sure he’d have bruises as soon as the blood rushed back to his arm.

“Get up, ya’ lump. It’s morning.” The clock read nine o’clock, bright digital lights shining in the dim light of the bedroom. They never slept that late; must’ve been a side effect from all the stress and shit finally being gone.

Dean flicked on the light with a flourish, ignoring the muffled whine from the bed.

He kept his back pressed against the door as he changed, for lack of a better option. He wasn’t about to drag the dresser in front of it, at least not for such a short amount of time. They’d mastered the ability to change completely in less than three minutes; it would be a waste to take longer by moving furniture around.

Dean’s dirty clothes went into the closet, a hamper on the floor inside, something he hadn’t known was there until he’d opened it a minute earlier.

Getting dressed again was the challenge. Though his injuries were mostly healed, they still hurt. Little scrapes and bruises from the crash had faded long ago, cuts that had needed stitches had had the sutures removed, though they were still beneath bandages - gauze bandages taped in place - and shouldn’t be pulled too much with his movements.

The pants were the hardest part, maneuvering them so they didn’t pull on the bandages, slowly sliding them up his thighs, over the bullet wound, wincing all the way. Despite how warm the house was in December - _great fucking heating system_ \- he grabbed long sleeves again.

An undershirt, dark grey, and one of his softer flannels, worn down to perfection. They were comfortable, that was all. Besides, Sam already felt guilty for enough things outside his control. No point in making him feel bad every time he caught sight of the bandages encircling Dean’s wrists. 

His amulet went beneath the shirt, again. He didn’t want to deal with inevitable casual questions that would come when they saw it, didn’t want to tell the story of the most pathetic Christmas that had ever come to pass.

The aches and pains that had showed up the night before had returned with full force, reminding him, once again, that tylenol really didn’t cut it. Thankfully, Pamela was supposed to stop by that day, so he’d get the real painkillers sooner rather than later.

The real question was whether he’d take them - _aversions to medication like that are not easily overcome_ \- or if he’d turn back to the tylenol. After all, it had worked well enough before it had worn off.

Sam wouldn’t agree.

Speaking of his younger brother, who was currently burritoed beneath the blankets on the bed, Sam needed to get changed as well. Dean didn’t even bother trying to unwrap the blankets from around him, instead picking up the whole bundle and - ignoring his brother’s squawk of protest - carried him out the room, down the hall, and dropped him on the bed. 

“Just put the blankets back in my room when you’re done!” He shut the door before he could hear Sam yell back at him, intending to make use of the bathroom across the hall from his brother’s room.

He only waited long enough to hear four voices carrying from downstairs, booming laughter that could only belong to Paul drowning out what someone was saying. Good. That meant they were all in the dining room, far enough away.

You could call Dean paranoid for all the precautions he was taking. He preferred to use the word _safe._

Even with all the members of the family downstairs, even with a bathroom door that locked - _unlike the bedrooms_ \- Dean didn’t waste any time inside, splashing water on his face and towelling it dry before using the toilet. After all, Sam’s bedroom didn’t have a lock.

His little brother met him in the hall, a mound of blankets in his arms that he practically threw at Dean as soon as he saw him, practically running into the bathroom and closing it behind him quickly, a grin on his face.

“I gave them back to you!” Sam’s call was muffled through the door, but there was a waver in his voice that meant he was barely holding back laughter. “You can put them back on your bed.”

Dean stood in the hallway for a moment longer, sheet draped over his shoulder and against his neck while the blankets he’d caught just in time hung from his hands. “...Next time, you’re putting them back. Or I could just exchange them for the collection of comics ya’ got in your room, Sammy. That sound good?”

He could practically _feel_ his younger brother’s scowl.

When the silence stretched, he cracked a grin, shaking his head as he turned towards his room. “I’ll give you a free pass this time, don’t worry.” Dean had a feeling his brother was only scowling harder.

It took Sam the same amount of time it took Dean to throw the blankets down and straighten them out for him to finish in the bathroom, waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The grin on his face was bright and happy and shit-eating, a little smirk hovering around the edges of it.

“There’s waffles for breakfast,” he said, the collar of his shirt brushing his cheek as he turned to look up at him. Sam had forgotten to fold it down and let Dean do it for him with only minimal cringing away. “C’mon, hurry up! I’m hungry.”

Dean requilished his grip on the shirt, dusting his hands off in an exaggerated manner as he looked his brother over, from ruffled hair to the bottoms of his jeans, the pant legs a little too long and trapped under Sam’s heels because of it.

“Alright, we’re good.”

Sam took off like a shot.

When Dean had finally caught up to his brother, he was standing in the doorway of the dining room, gaping at the room beyond it. A glance past him had Dean’s jaw dropping - _albeit less than his brother’s had_ \- and eyes widening.

There was no way in _hell_ this was what a normal breakfast looked like in the Turner household.

A plate piled high with waffles sat steaming in the middle of the table, a bowl of sliced strawberries next to it. Like the night before, each place was set with placemats and an individual napkin, a metal ring with initials written on it wrapped around the fabric.

There were only four places set, a mug of coffee at one empty end of the table, a pair of glasses resting beside it. As Dean neared the table, Sam at his side, he noticed each person was sitting in exactly the same spot as they had at dinner. Meaning, the seat with a mug of coffee was Paul’s.

Dean tamped down the unease growing in his stomach as he sat down, Elle grinning at him from her chair, so similar to his brother just minutes before. Jaden was smiling at the pair of them as well, though it was a much smaller smile than his sister’s.

“Do you guys eat like this every day?” Sam’s voice was soft, awe and excitement shining on his face. “This is amazing.”

Jaden gave him a funny look, one Dean couldn’t decipher, before responding. “Dad stress cooks.” Then he nodded at Dean, a sheepish smile growing in place of the previous one. “He still feels really bad about last night.”

And that…

That was ridiculous.

“Why?” Dean asked, his tone harsh and sharp; he makes no effort to soften it. “It was an accident and he didn’t mean to. It doesn’t matter that much.”

“It matters to me.” Paul was exiting the kitchen, a dish towel in his hands as he dried them. He was kind enough to act as if he hadn’t seen Dean’s flinch at his sudden appearance. “I should have known better than to grab you like that.”

When Dean opened his mouth to protest, Paul held up a hand, stopping him mid-denial, not even letting him finish the word. “There is no excuse. We have fostered plenty of children who did not want to be touched suddenly, or even touched at all. I do know better and my actions should have shown that. I’m sorry.”

“...You’re forgiven.” He didn’t really know what to say, but he’d heard someone say that once - _not to mention it was the only thought in his suddenly blank brain_ \- and decided to go with it. Sam’s silent support and weight pressing into his side made it all the more bearable.

And that was that. Dean was grateful when they didn’t make a big deal of it, Paul nodding and waving at the food set out, inviting them to start and promising to return in a minute with whipped cream and sausages. 

When Sam asked, Jaden told him that Amy had gone to the high school to pick up paperwork for placement tests before changing the subject, instead going on about his baseball team’s season and the absolutely _terrible_ pitcher that had just joined. In the span of a few minutes, Dean learned more about the guy than anyone before.

It wasn’t that he was bad at the game, he was just so full of himself. Apparently, he was the most arrogant fucker to ever walk earth, with his height and sarcastic grin, windswept brown hair and sparkling green eyes -

Hang on, Jaden had said he _hated_ him.

It seemed that Elle caught on the same time that Dean had, a smirk growing as she laughed at her brother. “You have a crush on him, don’t you?”

Dean couldn’t stop the recoil that went through his body automatically at her words, even though they weren’t directed at him, drawing the attention of the sibling across from him. He wasn’t sure what sort of face he was making, but it made Jaden - _Jaden_ \- sit up straighter and glare at him.

“You think there’s something wrong with that?” He sounded angry _,_ sounded _defensive_. Elle was right at his side, the scowl on her face so fearsome it rivalled all others Dean had seen previously. 

A glance at the kitchen showed that Paul was no longer in it, a moment of listening proving that he was upstairs, footsteps at the far end of the house. Sam was silent at his side, though he’d grabbed Dean’s wrist under the table and held it tight, nails digging into the skin.

“No, no I don’t think there’s anything _wrong_ with it, with liking guys. It’s just -” Dean cut himself off. A slightly tighter squeeze to his arm had him continuing. “It’s just, is that okay? Is that okay _here_?” He punctuated his question with a jab of his finger to the table.

The scowls and glares faded from the faces of those in front of him, Jaden once again offering a soft smile. “Yeah, it is. It’s all okay here.” The smile turned understanding when he saw Dean unable to answer, his mouth opening and closing in shock.

He felt like every train of thought, every reaction he’d trained into himself regarding his sexuality was destroyed. Blown to bits, with just a few simple words.

Jaden was quick to change the subject, drawing attention to himself as he mock-glared at his sister - _For your information, yes, I do._ \- making it so none of them saw the tears gathering in his eyes, not even Sam.

It wasn’t until after the meal had been cleared away, plates sticky with syrup washed in scalding water and extra food put in containers, then the fridge, that Dean remembered what he needed help with.

It wasn’t a job he could do with one hand and it wasn’t something he wanted Sam to help with, if only to spare him from seeing it. Paul was crossed off the list of helpers immediately, Amy was still out and wouldn’t be back very soon, and he certainly didn’t want Elle to see it.

That left one person; Jaden. Dean waited until their younger siblings were both in the living room, one of Sam’s comics in his hands, a drawing notebook and pencil in Elle’s, that he asked him.

He was careful to keep out of earshot from their siblings, not wanting Sam’s feelings to get hurt or wanting him to be concerned when it wasn’t his job, _it was Dean’s._ Jaden looked confused when he pulled the teen aside, keeping him in the kitchen before he could walk out.

“I need help. I have to change the bandages on my wrist and put medicine on it. Will you do it?” The confusion left his face instantly, and what was quickly becoming his customary small smile took its place.

“Of course.” Jaden led the way up the stairs, and it wasn’t until they were halfway up that Dean realised he’d thought of Elle and Sam as _their_ siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter!!! More sibling bonding and such to come!!
> 
> Pamela returns in the next chapter, along with a discussion of scars with Jaden. 
> 
> Lemme know what you thought!! Stay safe and stay healthy!!


	17. Of Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all
> 
> I don't know about you, but if you're in school, your classes probably started this week of last week. Mine started a few days ago and I have been stressed ever since.
> 
> So, thankfully, right before school started I had most of this written, then I finished it up yesterday between classes. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

The bathroom tiles were cold under Dean’s feet, helping him ground himself as he slowly rolled up his sleeves. They’d shut the door behind them, not wanting Paul to glance in or to take the chance of Sam popping his head in. 

A bottle of ointment that had been prescribed to Dean in the last couple days at the hospital was in his room, inside one of the inner pockets of his old duffle bag. It had surface level pain control, meant to relieve any itching or aching that would come with healing wounds, especially those at joints. 

That was what Dean really needed it for. Even though the wounds were mostly healed, the last twenty four hours had been uncomfortable, only made worse every time he moved his wrists too much.

Jaden was quiet as Dean locked the door behind them, quiet as he placed the medicine on the counter, rolls of bandages and medical tape following soon after. He didn’t say a word as Dean peeled back the tape holding the bandages to his wrist, peeled the layers of gauze away from each other. The only sound Jaden made was a sharp inhale, right as he caught his first glimpse of the angry red bands, right where his arms met his hands.

“Expected something different?” Such a similar question to what he’d asked Elle, just hours earlier. 

“...I didn’t expect it to be this bad.” There was a waver in the other teen’s voice that made Dean distinctly uncomfortable. He really didn’t know what he’d do if Jaden started crying, right then and there.

Thankfully, he didn’t, blinking hard a few times and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand before he nodded, more to himself than anyone else. “How about you sit down on the toilet and let me get all this stuff together.” Jaden took to old bandages from his hands, setting them beside the fresh roll and drawing a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer. 

Dean didn’t argue, settling himself onto the lid of the toilet, sleeves rolled to his elbows. When Jaden turned back around, he’d spread ointment onto his fingers, a thick layer to put over the scars. Freshly cut bandages that had been measured against the old ones, ensuring an exact length, sat on the counter next to strips of tape.

“Can I hold on to your arm with one hand and apply this with the other?” asked Jaden, voice soft, eyes searching Dean’s face. 

Dean tried to nod at first, his throat feeling too tight to breathe, let alone talk. Jaden shook his head from where he crouched, telling him he needed verbal confirmation, needed Dean to _say_ he could touch him. 

Some stupid consent shit he’d never heard in his life before the hospital - _Sam never needed to ask. He knew._ \- and he had to say he didn’t completely hate it. “Yeah - yes, you can.”

Jaden’s fingers were light and cool and they turned his wrists to and fro, smearing the medication on the raised, red line that encircled them. Then came the bandages, wrapped tightly, though not too tight, a thick strip of medical tape securing them in place.

It was so neat, it looked almost professional. “You got practice doing this?”

“Yes,” said Jaden, his voice still so hushed, as if to not break the strange mood that filled the room. “I have some basic medical training, from summer camps and sports. I took classes so I could help anyone if they got hurt.”

“What’re gonna be when you grow up? A doctor?” Dean kept his voice at the same level of the other teen’s, eyes flickering from his wrists to Jaden’s face.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Might want to be a veterinarian instead, though.” Those would be good careers for Jaden, with his soft smiles and gentle words. “Elle wants to be a racecar driver; I think she considers riding her bike as fast as she can practice.”

“Sounds like perfect jobs for the both of you.”

“What about you?” Jaden asked, scooting back a few feet as he pressed down the last end of tape into place. At Dean’s questioning look, he continued. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I used to want to be a firefighter, back when I was little.” _Before my mom died_ was the unspoken clarification that neither needed to hear.

“And now? Got any ideas?”

“Not a clue.” Dean was careful to keep his response uncaring and casual, adding a little shrug of his shoulders as he spoke. It wouldn’t do to have that fluttering, wavering feeling inside him well up into his words.

_Sadness._ That’s what that feeling was.

Jaden’s eyes remained searching his for a moment longer, concern evident in every line of his body. He must have found what he was looking for, as he let out a slow breath and relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. Dean could tell it was forced, the light in it not quite matching the lack thereof in the other teen’s eyes.

“Alright.” He thought that was all Jaden had to say, thought it was the end of this. Then: “This helps ease any discomfort with scars, right?”

“...Yes.” Dean didn’t know where he was going with this. 

“Do you have other scars you want to put this on, at least until Pamela gets here?” he asked, tone just a bit too casual for the moment. Likely seeing Dean’s hesitation, the warring of emotions over his face, Jaden continued. “Of course, you don’t need to. I can leave the room if you want me to.”

“No.” It was too abrupt, not how he’d meant it to come out. “I mean, no, you don’t have to leave.” They’d all see them eventually, might as well cross one off the list. Nevermind how shaky the thought of it made him, nevermind the increasingly shallow breaths he was taking.

Jaden didn’t double check with him, didn’t give him a chance to second guess himself, just nodded in agreement and turned around again - despite the fact that he’d see it all in a few short moments.

The hem of Dean’s shirt felt coarse between his fingers as he rubbed it, once, twice, before pulling it over his head and off him completely. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles between his feet, the cool feeling of the toilet through his jeans, as he turned as far to the left as he could in the cramped room, giving better access to his back.

Though the burns had healed, leaving dark pink scars and rough skin behind, he kept the bandages over it anyways. That way, he couldn’t accidentally catch sight of it getting dressed or in the mirror that hung above his new dresser.

Carefully, he reached over his shoulder with his opposite arm, trusting his sense of touch to find the corner of the bandages, to peel back the tape without needing to look. The corner came free easily - _probably needed to stop using this bandage_ \- and the sides of the warped rectangle peeled back with it.

A bit of creative twisting and maneuvering, and the bottom corner had come free too, cool air spreading over his back. Dean hadn’t realized how warm it made him until he’d taken it off. As he drew the gloried gauze pad over his shoulder, folding it in half, then to quarters, he noticed idly that his hands were shaking.

He watched them tremble with a detached sort of interest, holding one hand close to his face as he studied each digit, only to be broken from his thoughts when a muffled gasp sounded nearby, abruptly reminding him that Jaden still stood in the room with him.

The person in question was looking at his back with wide eyes, tube of ointment in his hand, arms slack at his sides. At least he wasn’t staring, not like how Dean had expected them all to.

_Though Jaden had been the exception from the expectation, and so far, he still was._

Instead of mindless, shocked, staring, Jaden was studying the burn, every edge of it, as if he could figure out exactly how it happened - _and_ _how to prevent it from ever happening again_ \- if he looked at it long enough.

That was why Dean wasn’t surprised by his next question. “How did that happen to you?” Of course, Jaden immediately went to follow it up with assuring Dean that _he didn’t have to tell him_ and _I’m sorry for asking, it’s not my business,_ and sure, it wasn’t, but Dean wanted to tell him regardless.

“John got mad at me.” He folded his trembling hands together and hung them between his legs, in the hope that the pressure would stop the shaking. It didn’t. “He handcuffed me to a radiator and turned it on, locked Sam out of the room. Left me there for a few hours, until Sam was able to sneak in and patch me up when he went out for a drink.” A pause, then he added: “The doc said I was lucky to make it and even luckier it didn’t get infected.”

“Does it hurt?” That was a complicated question to answer.

“Kind of? I mean, impacts and moving too fast still hurts a lot, but just touching it doesn’t.” With that thought in mind, Dean finally turned his head enough to see Jaden and reached out, grabbing one of his hands and guiding it to rest lightly on the burns. “I can’t really feel much, all the surface nerves are pretty much gone. Just pressure and temperatures, but not much else.”

Dean turned back to face the wall as he felt Jaden begin to move his hand, fingers running over the scarred flesh. It was strange, that feeling. Jaden was pushing down just hard enough that he could tell where the other teen’s hand was, though not so hard that it hurt.

Again, as he had in nearly every situation so far, Jaden seemed to sense when it became too much and backed off, taking a whole step away and grabbing the ointment, giving Dean a chance to gather himself.

“Are you ready?” Always with the verbal confirmation.

“Yeah. Go ahead.” This time, his voice didn’t waver.

_______________

The ointment was applied in a very similar way to lotion on a sunburn: gently, rubbing it in while moving your hand in a circular motion, and not leaving any excess on the surface of the skin. The only difference - _besides the severity of the burn_ \- was the medical smell it left behind.

Dean’s shirt didn’t stick to the skin, thankfully, as he couldn’t really put that bandage back over the burn - he was supposed to let it sit for half an hour, as it was a bigger area than his wrists - and the bandage would have likely fallen off anyways.

Jaden stressed those two points when Dean had insisted that he’d be fine and tried to return the bandage to its place. That being said, the bandage was now in the trash and Jaden was washing his hands while Dean pulled on his flannel over his shirt.

The whole thing hadn’t taken as long as he had expected, and for that, Dean was thankful. There was less of a chance of Sam asking where they’d been, what they’d been doing, and less of a chance of having to show his brother the burns in their entirety. 

Sam had asked, of course, while they were still in the hospital. He had pushed a little too far the third time he’d insisted that he needed to see it, see how bad it was. That had been one of the few times Dean had gotten truly angry with his brother since the crash.

Sam had only been asking to know how bad it was and Dean hadn’t wanted to watch him wallow in guilt for weeks on end, as if he could have done anything to stop John.

He hoped his brother wouldn’t be too upset when he found out Dean had showed Jaden first.

With that thought in mind, he stopped Jaden as the other teen put his hand on the doorknob, ready to open the door and join their siblings downstairs. “Hey. Can you - can we not tell Elle and Sam about this?”

Jaden didn’t even hesitate, simply nodding and handing Dean the tube of ointment from where it sat on the counter. “Of course. And here - it probably wouldn’t be the best to leave this in here, then.”

“Thanks.” This time, he didn’t stop Jaden as he opened the door, walking gingerly after him, still thrown from the faint feeling of his shirt against his back. “Really, Jaden. Thank you.” They both knew it was for more than following his request.

Jaden turned to him, that little smile on his lips. “Like I said, of course.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the new chapter!! As I said, brotherly bonding. Here it is.
> 
> I also barely proof read this so if you see an error, no matter how big or small, please let me know. Lemme know what you though or what parts you liked!!
> 
> Hope all y'all's weeks have been good! California is on fire again, so anyone there, stay safe!!
> 
> And of course, all of you, stay safe and stay healthy!!!


	18. Vanilla Perfume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, here's another one!!
> 
> I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd updated until literally a couple of days ago, and I've been stuck on how to write this chapter until now.
> 
> So this one is a bit shorter than usual, I'm sorry.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Amy had finally returned home, which meant that Pamela would be coming to the house in the next couple of hours. Apparently, the social worker had some things she wanted to discuss with Sam and Dean, she wasn’t just stopping by as Dean had been hoping.

His two younger siblings were still sitting on the couch, now in a fierce debate over who was better: Batman or Iron Man. Dean joined them moments before blood could be shed, effectively shutting down their argument by plucking a comic from Sam’s hands and setting it aside, reminding his brother Pamela was on her way.

“What do you think she wants to talk about?” Sam asked, Jaden settling into one of the armchairs nearby, him and Elle studiously acting as if they couldn’t hear every word being said. 

Dean had already considered every possibility, none of which he wanted to discuss with their social worker.

Shrinks had been a subject brought up often during their meetings while they had still been in the hospital, as it was apparently a necessity and they weren’t going to be able to get out of it. Doctor’s orders.

He still hadn’t asked after Donna, scared that she would want nothing to do with the pair of them, worried that she’d been hurt irreparably and wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of the two boys who’d save her life and countless others.

He’d been told that she had been released from the hospital before he’d woken up, as her parents had been contacted and had come to bring her home. Sam hadn’t been permitted to say goodbye, as the doctors had deemed it to be too sensitive of a subject, their nearly impossible escape, and hadn’t wanted either person to be triggered by seeing the other again.

The Impala, Dean didn’t know where that had ended up. It had been hit hard, rebounding off trees after John’s Jeep had slammed into the other side, the doors crumpled and hanging off their hinges.

It likely would never be driven again. At least, not unless someone were to gut the Impala and build it up again.

So yeah, there were a lot of things she could want to talk about. None of which Dean was really looking forward to discussing. Instead of saying all that, Dean shrugged in his brother’s direction and slumped further into the couch, the cushions beneath him suddenly more comfortable than anything ever before.

Damn, maybe he should have gotten more sleep last night.

It seemed that his early morning excursion to the kitchen had been too much, even with the extra hour or two he and Sam had slept in for, because it only took a moment of sitting on the soft cushions before his eyes began to droop in earnest, eyelids feeling as if they were made of stone. 

The murmur of conversation slowly faded out, voices muffled, the rumbling of cars driving down the street a muted background sound. He felt someone settle onto the cushion to his left, his seat tilting in their direction as weight settled and shifted.

Without thinking -  _ really, there weren’t any thoughts going through his head, for once _ \- Dean slumped further in their direction, the side of his head coming to rest on a bony shoulder that was barely softened by the sweater over it. 

He must have dozed off for a few minutes, for next he knew he was waking to the sharp knocking of someone in a hurry, the sound of knuckles on wood loud even in the living room. Dean fluttered his eyes open for a moment, taking in the bright, far too bright room before him, before he shut them tightly.

There was something comforting about the shoulder he was resting on, the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon drifting over him in waves, a warm hand supporting his arm nearest to the shoulder. There was something about it that made him not want to move, want to bask in the warmth of being near his -

_ Mom. _

He must have said it out loud, must have made some noise to that effect, for a sharp gasp sounded beside him, the shoulder beneath his head shifting and tensing for a moment in shock,  _ why in shock _ -

_ Why would his mom be surprised when he called her that, with her perfume that smelled like dessert and shampoo like that smelled vanilla _ -

Dean sat up quickly, eyes snapping open and blinking rapidly at the light, taking in the shocked faces around him, Pamela at the doorway, his brother’s mouth open and face pale, taking in Amy and her sweater and her  _ vanilla perfume. _

He was on his feet in an instant, ignoring the way Pamela shifted away from the doorway, moving aside to give him an easy escape from the room and the staring faces, the wide eyes and gaping mouths. “Shit, I’m -  _ shit, _ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I really didn’t mean to say that, I’m sorry Amy, I was tired and you smelled - your perfume smells like my mom’s and I forgot.”

His hands trembled where they hung beside him and he stuffed them into his pockets, knowing by now that clenching them makes the trembling, if anything, worse.

Amy was on her feet, along with the other occupants of the room, and when she took a step towards him, having now backed himself several feet away, he couldn't stop himself from flinching.

She covers up her hurt fast, sympathy -  _ pity, a voice in his head whispers _ \- shining in her eyes as she stilled, a sad smile coming over her face. “It’s alright, Dean. It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

That’s nice and all, but she wasn’t the only one he was apologizing. Dean flicked his eyes towards his brother, who stood only a few feet behind their foster parent, who’s eyes were still wide, who’s eyes were now riveted on his own. “I’m - Sammy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

His apology only served to make his brother’s eyes well with tears and -  _ fuck, everything I do makes it all worse. _ “Dean, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

The way the pair of them say it, with absolute certainty, they could almost make him believe it. Dean didn’t back away any farther, didn’t take the easy escape route only a few strides away. Instead, he nodded, albeit shallowly, and let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“How about we clear out and give you a moment?” Amy suggested hesitantly, her son and daughter already having started to edge towards the kitchen, sensing the discomfort that was likely rolling off of Dean in waves. “We’ll just be in the other room.”

The family didn’t wait for a confirmation, Jaden and Elle meeting their father at the table, Amy following quickly after them. It was only when they’d all left the room that Dean felt he could move again, his feet uprooting from their previously unmoveable state, making towards the closest part of the couch and collapsing onto it.

Sam joined him without a moment of hesitation, sitting in the middle seat, just a few inches away, carefully not touching him but close enough for Dean to lean against him if he wanted to.

Pamela was quiet as she took a seat in the armchair across from them, the same seat she’d sat in just a couple of days ago, though it seemed much longer ago than that. She had a folder in her hands, resting on her lap, and Dean tried not to think about what could possibly be inside.

Thankfully, their social worker chose not to dwell on what had happened, didn’t ask questions about his reaction or try and pry the details of his childhood from his head - as a psychiatrist at the hospital had once tried to do.

Instead, she simply flipped open that blue folder, the papers inside organized into sections with paper clips and tabs, and leaned forward in her seat, opening her mouth to speak. “I’m here today to talk about Donna.”

_ Great. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the new chapter!!
> 
> Lemme know what you thought, whether that's what you liked, constructive criticism, or if you felt that I rushed part of it!! :)
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!! 
> 
> If you are in an area of California/Oregon where you may need to be evacuated, have a go-bag ready with clothes, non-perishables, and valuables. Be careful out there!


	19. Of Crashed Cars and Business Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm so sorry for the delay. I hadn't realized and I hope this slightly longer chapter makes up for it.
> 
> Some of you may have noticed the chapter count - never fear, this will be made into a series (probably with only 2 installments) in which I will continue the story. Just, 20+ chapters is a little long, so I decided to stop is there.
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!!

Papers from that damn blue fold went neatly stacked on the coffee table. An account of her injuries following the car crash -  _ much of it redacted _ \- various transcriptions of the report she gave to authorities during her recovery -  _ also mostly redacted _ \- and an unassuming business card, right there on the top.

Dean could feel Sam tensing beside them as Pamela shuffled and reshuffled papers - looking for a specific one or trying to think of what to say, he didn’t know.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was likely thirty seconds, their social worker cleared her throat, her mysteriously illusive document in her hand. It was folded in half, the words inside concealed, as she lifted it in a clear offering for Dean to take.

Hesitantly, he reached out and took it, quarter turning towards Sam so his brother could the other side as it was unfolded. The paper was worn, old creases that had been folded and refolded spanning across its face.

The words were handwritten, in an unfamiliar, slanting handwriting. It only took a few seconds of reading for the writing to start blurring before Dean’s eyes - he blinked the tears away and ignored the way his hands shook, for once not because of fear.

_ Dear Sam and Dean, _ read the letter, Donna’s blue ink smeared slightly, as though it had been written quickly, as though her hands were as steady as those of the teens who held her letter.

_ Thank you so much for saving me. I can never express my gratitude enough for what you did to achieve that, and I hope that this note can be sufficient for the moment. _

_ To Sam: You are so brave and so strong. You were fearless as you ran beside me  _ \- here, the words got shakier -  _ while bullets flew by. You helped conceal my phone and defy your father, something I know I would never have been able to do in your position. _

_ To Dean: Don’t blame yourself for my injuries. Just because you were made to pick me doesn’t make it your fault.  _

Apparently, spending an hour with him was long enough to find his deepest fears. Donna would make a good shrink.

_ You had to pick someone and it ended up being me. I understand. And I am okay with it.  _

_ They say that I’ll make a full recovery - minimal scarring and no permanent injuries. I’ll be returning to school in a few weeks, and I heard that you’ll be as well. I hope that you are safe and happy and healing, as I am. _

_ Love, _

_ Donna Miller _

The tears running down his face were mirrored on Sam’s, free hand over his mouth to stop any noises from escaping. The edges of the paper were crinkling in their hands, before his brother let go, grip suddenly slack as he curled against Dean’s side.

Dean carefully refolded the letter and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, paper rustling as he shifted to pull Sam tighter to his chest. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, chin propped on the top of his younger brother’s head.

The feeling flooding through him wasn’t new. Relief, that’s what it was. Utter relief.

She was okay. She was going to make a full recovery. 

Thank god.

He didn’t realize he was speaking out loud until Sam let out a little sob into his shirt, tears soaking in as he nodded.

“She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay,” he murmured, pulling back enough to look Dean in the eyes. Suddenly, Dean was reminded how young his brother really was - twelve, and taking on this burden. “She’s okay.”

He couldn’t do anything but gasp out an agreement and cling to Sam tighter, rocking from side to side on the couch, cushion shifting beneath them. “Yeah, she’s okay. She’s going to be fine.”

Pamela cleared her throat after a few moments, though she did it gently and didn’t say anything as they separated, though kept their shoulders pressed together. Her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, her smile a little too watery as she glanced down at the papers spread in front of her.

She sorted through them again, albeit faster than before, that little inconspicuous business card now in her hands. 

“Ms Miller gave this to me when I spoke with her in the hospital,” she said, holding the card out to them. “She’s asked you to call, when you feel up to it.”

The card was that of a ‘Jonathan Miller’, a lawyer with a masters degree, if the writing on the paper was to be believed. An phone number was listed beneath the name, as was an email address. Probably her father’s card, if Dean had to guess. 

Sam took the card before he could, looking at it for a moment and turning it over his hands before tucking it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

Pamela nodded, casting a glance at the papers in her folder, then continuing. “I have your medication here, Dean.” She pulled a small paper bag from the bag that rested at her side, setting it on the coffee table. “The directions are inside, as is the prescription for when you need a refill.”

Then, she sighed, her shoulders slumping for the first time since she’d arrived. “I’m afraid I have some news that may not be as good as Ms Miller’s recovery.” Somehow, her tone was even softer than before.

“What is it?” Dean asked. Drawing things like this out never did  _ anyone _ any good.

Pamela seemed to read the hate for suspense in his voice and - a credit to her - didn’t hesitate to speak. “Your car, the Impala, was practically destroyed in the crash. I’ve heard that it was important to you, and I’m sorry.”

He’d bet all his money that it was Sam who’d told her that. In the hospital their social worker often visited to talk or go over things, speaking to the both together and separately. 

She drew a few photos from the blue folder, a paper clip keeping them together. It was his Baby, crushed doors and shattered windows, with bullet holes decorating what remained unscathed.

This time, instead of offering them to the two of them, she unclipped the photos and spread them across the table, each shot showing a different -  _ equally destroyed _ \- angle. 

“I don’t know much about cars, but that doesn’t look like it will be able to move any time soon.” Her words, coated with pity, something he hadn’t heard from her yet and had been hoping he’d never hear. “It was towed to a junkyard a couple hours drive from here, if you wanted to see it -”

“I can fix it.” Dean interrupted her before she could finish her sentence, say  _ one last time. _ “I can fix that, if I have the right tools.”

He could see the doubt on her face as she went to speak again. “Dean, I know how hard this is for you, but it isn’t -”

“Don’t tell me that this isn’t something that can be fixed. Don’t tell me you ‘know how hard this is’, because you  _ don’t. _ ” He knew his voice was rising, and for once, Sam didn’t try to calm him down. “That car was our home. Our  _ only _ home. And I don’t care how long it takes me to fix it, I can and will.”

“Dean…”

This time, it was Sam who interrupted her. “He’s right. That car is all we have left, it’s all we had in the first place. We’ll fix it, no matter what it takes.”

Pamela’s eyes flickered between the two of them, perhaps gauging how best to proceed - damage control, essentially. Seeing the matching stony faces Dean knew were in place of their previous expressions without looking, she sighed again.

“I can leave you with the name and number of the man who owns the junkyard, but no promises. He might not even pick up the phone, let alone let you use his tools and materials.” Instead of another business card, she pulled a notepad and pen from her bag, scribbling out a string of numbers before tearing out the page.

“Thanks.” Dean made sure his tone was, for once, soft and polite, infusing gratitude into the edges to really wrap it up.

Listen, he could be polite and perfect if he wanted to.

He just didn’t usually want to.

“Of course, boys.” Pamela swept her papers back together, stacking them neatly and putting them into the folder. “Is there anything else? I’ll be stopping by next Sunday, but you can always call me with any concerns before then.”

Always so business like, the ends of their meetings. 

Dean and Sam shook their heads in unison, paper bag of medication and card in their hands now, as they stood with the social worker. 

“Well then,” she began, then paused. She seemed at a loss of what to say next. “Stay safe, and take care.”

They exchanged handshakes, that fixed little smile that Dean had cultivated still plastered on his face. His Baby was sitting,  _ rusting, _ in some random dump just two hours away, and he might not even get to repair her.

It all rested on the junkyard owner’s shoulders, who apparently might not even pick up his phone.

Pamela nodded once, before stepping into the kitchen with a knock on the doorframe. With the social worker out of the room, Dean suddenly found himself unable to meet his brother’s eyes, instead focusing on the carpet beneath his feet.

Between calling Amy ‘mom’, almost freaking out at breakfast, then again minutes prior, he wasn't doing the best. And Sam didn’t deserve that.

He really,  _ really _ didn’t deserve that.

So Dean didn’t look his brother in the eye as they waited for Pamela to finish speaking with the Turner family -  _ in tones just low enough to not be heard _ \- and pretended his ears weren’t straining to catch even a snatch of their conversation.

Thankfully, the adults wrapped their conversations up quickly, the social worker leading the Turner family back into the living room for the final goodbye of the day. 

As the parents shook hands with Pamela, Elle and Jaden waving behind them, Dean could feel Amy gearing up to say something. It was the way she kept glancing at him and his brother, or maybe it was how she opened her mouth for a moment before closing it again as she looked, but he could tell.

And with Pamela’s car pulling away from the curb out front, he wished, for once, that the good bye’s had taken longer.

Elle and Jaden remained standing, a rare occurrence when it came to casual conversations. He knew Sam had sensed the change as well, for he was drawing himself up straighter as he looked from parent to parent, waiting for the shoe to drop.

Amy stepped forward with a quick inhale -  _ a steadying breath. Why? _ \- a smile that could only be described as  _ gentle _ coming onto her face.

Dean braced himself for the worst, even though he didn’t know what the worst was with this family or circumstances, didn’t know what he was walking into-

“Are you two ready to do some shopping?”

That might have been the worst.

_______________

Dean decided, only five minutes into the shopping trip that was,  _ apparently, _ for him and Sam, that it was not, in fact, the worst. The worst was that the entire family came.

And they seemed to know everyone.

You’d think that as a principal, you’d be seen as either untouchable or enemy number one. It seemed that neither of these were the case with Amy Turner.

Their little group got stopped in nearly every section of every store they went to - or at least, that’s what it felt like. Whether by parents or fellow teachers -  _ no highschooler would suffer the shame of seeming friendly to the principal _ \- they all seemed to want to talk to her

And it wasn’t even about anything important! They just wanted to chat, to blabber on and on and on about their kids and their achievements and  _ have you tried that new kale smoothie? I’ve heard it does wonders. _

If he had to listen to one more well meaning parent ask Amy how their new placements were doing -  _ they were right there, for God’s sake _ \- he was going to shoot someone.

It was going to be himself.

The only saving graces of the errand were Jaden and Elle, the older boy keeping up a near constant stream of commentary, just loud enough for him to hear, while Elle rolled her eyes less than ten seconds into every conversation before dragging them off to get what they needed.

What they  _ needed _ included two pairs of jeans and a pair of sweats each, they’d get shorts once spring came, along with a total of seven more shirts - all but one long sleeved, two of which were made specifically for cold weather.

Packs of socks and underwear joined the clothing in the cart, pajamas and slippers -  _ really? _ \- thrown on top soon after. Jackets and formal wear were an entirely different issue.

Thankfully, by that time the Turner parents escaped from their conversation in time to stop Elle from forcing Dean into a vibrant purple puffy coat, because _ it brought out his eyes _ , as she’d said through her laughter.

They each ended up getting a warmer coat each, fleece lined and better suited for the cold December weather. With holiday break still two weeks away, they’d have plenty of time to get formal clothing and didn’t need to get everything in one go.

Shopping for school supplies was much faster, though that may have been because Elle’s various ‘suggestions’ -  _ listen, Dean was not getting a sparkly unicorn backpack, no matter how sad she looked _ \- were stopped by the parents before they’d begun.

Notebooks and binders, pens and pencils, a scientific calculator and water bottle, all selected and rung up in less than thirty minutes.

A good thing, Dean could feel himself getting twitchy from all the stares he’d received from well-wishing parents.

Even then, they only stopped by the Turner’s house long enough to drop off the various bags of supplies before they were driving again, this time towards the highschool. 

Amy and Paul, in some master planning of events, had decided to get everything that needed to happen done as soon as possible. Meaning, they were now on their way to take the placement test.

Sounds fun.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter!! 
> 
> Lemme know what y'all thought or what you noticed!!
> 
> (also: I don't live in Kansas or anywhere with extreme weather/winters. Anyone live somewhere like that and feel like enlightening me on how cold the winter can be?)


	20. Anxiety, Tests, and the Hobbit (Not Necessarily in That Order)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! Some shitty things are happening in my life, so I couldn't find the energy to write for like a solid 2 weeks. Now, it's on its way to getting better, but it still kinda sucks.
> 
> But, writing cheers me up. So, here's an extra thousand words than the usual length for your troubles.

The campus looked like it was straight out of _every_ high school movie ever.

A main building that was three stories tall, grey cement and window sills painted red. A smaller building beside that one, a stretch of concrete between, leading to basketball hoops Dean could just make out through the car window.

The front wall of the smaller building was decorated with a huge mural, the paint bright and eye catching even from a distance. The arts and music building, then.

They pulled into a practically deserted parking lot, only three other cars inside its white lines, all spread far from each other. Amy’s Subaru looked out of place among the smaller vehicles, all shiny and new.

Guess there were _some_ advantages to being the principal.

The whole family piled out of the car, Sam and Dean following them out. Amy’s car had seats for seven people -- if no one minded sitting in the middle of the backmost seats. 

He had sat in the very back, Sam beside him, despite there not being a quick way out. It was better than sitting between the parents, with Jaden and Elle behind them.

One day, this paranoia - _hypervigilance, as the doctor called it_ \- would go away, and he wasn’t sure if it would help or make him more terrified to know he was finally at ease. That he’d let his guard down.

Amy led the way towards the main building, Paul beside her and the teens - and preteens - trailing after. The entrance doors were unlocked, surprisingly, though not propped open.

The inside of the school was nice -- large white and black tiles patterning the hallways, bulletin boards with projects stapled to them, posters boasting of various clubs and groups taped to the walls.

Pretty much exactly what Dean had imagined. Good to see that the movies didn’t disappoint.

Instead of entering one of the two offices branching off of the atrium, their group walked farther down the main hallway, footsteps echoing in the silent hallway. They didn’t go far down it - _Dean casting glances behind them towards the rapidly growing distance from the exit_ \- stopping at a classroom, light leaking from the crack beneath the door.

There was the low murmur of voices coming from inside, a male and a female, from what he could hear as the group neared. 

He could feel that anxiety bubbling up inside of him -- stomach twisting and throat tightening, the collar of his shirt brushing against his neck in a very unpleasant way, his hands twitching at his sides as he resisted pulling it away.

It was just a test, why was he even nervous? It was just a test, for stuff he’d taught himself or learned from various books, administered by complete strangers. It was just the test that would determine _what grade he went to-_

Amy paused at the door, her hand resting on the doorknob as she half turned towards the pair of them, Jaden and Elle having cleared her line of sight when they stepped to the side; evidently, the other kids would not be accompanying them inside.

“Are you ready?” She asked, pitching her voice low, meeting Dean’s eyes for a moment before flicking her gaze to his brother.

Dean nodded, he wasn’t sure if he could talk at this point. He felt, rather than saw, Sam nod beside him.

Paul joined his children in leaning against the hallway’s wall, his son slipping a phone from a back pocket while Elle stared at the posters nearby - _squinting. Near sighted?_ \- and scowled.

The door opened quietly, the conversation from inside cutting off almost immediately, the screech of chairs being pushed back ringing in his ears. It was a woman and man who greeted them, the lady wearing a well-fitting suit and dress shoes, the man in khakis and a sweater.

They both held folders in their hands, as seemed to be the pattern with all these official types. Looking past them, Dean could see two desks, far spaced from each other, a packet of paper and a pencil on top of them.

He could feel Sam’s anxiety mounting along with his own, and didn’t think before reaching out and resting a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, squeezing twice before leaving it there.

No words were necessary, just a short reassurance as the woman beckoned to Sam and the man to Dean - _names, he’d missed them_ \- both smiling in such a _sympathetic_ way that for a moment, his anger swept over his apprehension in a wave that he barely kept from his face.

He didn’t need to be condescended to.

Brotherly sense went both ways, it seemed, for it was barely half a second later when Dean felt Sam’s bony elbow dig into his rbs and stepped forward, following the man towards the desk on the right.

Might as well get this over with.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Amy didn’t leave the room once during the entire, two and a half hour long test. She settled into one of the desks in the corner, pulled out her phone, and seemed to be perfectly fine with sending various emails and reading articles and whatever the hell she could do on there for so long.

The test consisted of five categories; reading, language, verbal skills, math, and quantitative skills. 

Honestly, Dean thought he’d done good on all of them -- none of it had felt like a struggle and there hadn’t been anything he didn’t know, at least, _a little_ bit about.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the official running the test was _impressed_ with him, little eyebrow raises and faint smiles after nearly every question he answered, as if the man hadn’t expected Dean to be able to solve the problem.

Only once did the official talk to him, besides pointing out where to begin and sliding him the next part of the test. It was when Dean had finished, had just put his pencil down and swept the papers back into a neat stack.

The man had asked, “You have quite a wide range of interests, don’t you?”

Dean had simply replied: “I read a lot.”

Now, Amy was standing and shaking hands with the two school system officials, a professional smile on her face as she thanked them for taking precious time out of their days on such short notice.

Sam had joined Dean where he stood, beside the door, hand half a foot from the doorknob, his back to the wall as they watched the adults.

Old habits die hard, for both of them.

From the strands of conversation they could catch, Amy had apparently ensured that their test results would be fast tracked, as to get placed in the proper grade as soon as possible. After all, they were supposed to be going to school by the next day.

Thankfully, the exchanging of pleasantries didn’t take long, a couple of minutes at the most, and so enough Amy was turning towards the pair of them, her bright smile shifting to something smaller, softer.

She didn’t say a word as they exited the classroom, not pushy questions or mundane comments. 

Just silent support, leaving Dean to question when, exactly, he’d started feeling safe enough to turn his back to the woman.

Jaden and Elle were up and next to them the instant they cleared the doorway, Jaden offering a grin as he joined them, Elle absorbed in a book she had grabbed from God knows where. 

The siblings, too, didn’t ask any questions about the test, perhaps seeing the tension bleeding Sam and Dean’s shoulders with the exam over and done with. Jaden provided quiet commentary on the way down out to the car, talking about everything under the sun -- from baseball, to his friends at school, to which teachers he liked the best.

It was comforting, in a way, to listen without having to say anything in return.

When one is in a small room, with strangers and few exits, in an already stressful situation, one does not usually come out feeling at ease, something the Turners seemed to have picked up on.

Even when they got to the car, bright sun reflecting off the windows, nevermind the clouds in the sky, the family didn’t ask either of them about the exam, inane chatter filling the background as they took their original seats.

The only things alluding to the test said was spoken by Amy, right as they were pulling out of the parking lot.

“You too did very well, I’m proud of you for doing that.” There were genuine emotions in her voice, her eyes glancing at them through the rearview mirror, a smile on her lips. “I wouldn’t have been able to sit still for so long.”

_Your survival has never depended on your ability to sit still._

Dean almost said it, that contemptuous little thought that reared up from the back of his head like a viper preparing to strike. But he buried it instead, with another glance from Amy, that _pride_ still evident on her face.

It was real, he could tell. He knew Sam could tell, too, with the way he straightened in his seat, losing a little of that rigidity that his brother carried on his shoulders. 

Dean didn’t respond, instead nodding once in acknowledgement to her words, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone told him they were proud of him.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Dinner was a quiet affair, following the trend of the previous hours. Jaden seemed to have the special skill few had, that ability to carry a conversation without much support.

The meal was leftovers from the previous night, baked chicken on top of mashed potatoes, the remains of the green beans mixed among them. Neither Paul nor Amy tried to draw the two of them into conversation, though the latter casted more than a few concerned glances their way.

The results of their tests would only take an hour more, and Dean couldn’t manage to push away the anxiety that curled in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious -- school had never been a priority, not in his mind or his father’s. It was interesting, at least some classes were, but it never seemed to hold his attention for long.

Maybe it was because, for the first time, his grades mattered. His classes mattered, his test scores mattered, his future - _something he’d never dreamed of getting_ \- mattered.

Dean was so absorbed in his thoughts, his dreams for what could come next, he didn’t realize dinner was over until Sam nudged him, _hard,_ the rest of the table standing, plates in hand.

“Sorry,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, metal clinking against ceramics as he stacked his fork and knife. Paul was watching him, a faint frown and concerned look on his face.

Dean met his gaze, stared right back at him until the man looked away. He didn’t need to be _watched,_ he didn’t want Paul’s concern.

Ignoring the looks his brother was casting him, glancing between the two of them, Dean left the room, joining Jaden and Elle in the kitchen. The siblings were scraping the remains of their dinner, chicken bones and food scraps, into the compost bin, which rested on the counter.

Dean didn’t say a word as he stood beside them, giving a nod to Jaden when the other boy moved away, making space for him to put his own chicken bones into the compost.

He could feel the glances being exchanged behind his back -- eventually, you develop an instinct for those little things, when in an unsafe environment. You adapt, so you can survive.

He was not adapting well to this new environment, to all the concern and pride and, dare he say, _love._ He was not adapting well at all; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

Adapting meant losing his edge, losing the vigilance that has kept him alive - _kept Sam alive_ \- for this long. Dean didn’t want Amy’s pride, or Paul’s concern, or _anything_ the Turner family had to offer --

Except that he did, and he had no idea what to do with it.

  
  


_______________

  
  


The knock on his door wasn’t a surprise, but the person on the other side of it was.

Jaden opened the door halfway, pausing before poking his head inside, his customary smile nowhere to be found. He didn’t seem angry, though, shoulder loose and eyes soft as he scanned Dean, head to toe.

He wasn’t sure what Jaden was looking for, but apparently he found it, because he opened the door a bit wider, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Can I come in?” he asked, nodding at the bed Dean was currently sprawled across, back against the mattress, legs hanging off the side and feet planted on the floor.

Dean answered him with a flick of the hand, beckoning the other boy inside. Jaden didn’t enforce his little ‘verbal confirmation’ rule, just nodded and stepped forward, before pausing once again.

“Can I shut this?” Jaden gestured at the door behind him, and Dean noticed how careful the movement was. Hands in full view, one lightly resting at his side, while the other was lifted to point at the door.

Careful, as to not startle the spooked occupant nearby.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. It didn’t matter either way, a door wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to leave. The security of a door was just in your mind -- though, sometimes, that was all someone needed to feel safe.

Jaden didn’t speak as he joined him on the bed, perching on the edge, legs stretched out in front of him. There was a certain _air_ about him, that of consideration.

Good, not more concern, not more sympathy and _understanding._

“What was that, at dinner and in the kitchen?” The other boy’s voice wasn’t the fake casual so many people go for. It wasn’t the soft comfort that was offered at the hospital, or the analyzing tone of the FBI agents. It was just a question, simple and to the point.

“I don’t- I was just lost in my thoughts, I’m okay. That’s all.” Dean hoped that would be enough to dissuade any further questions, though he certainly didn’t put much effort into the facade of ‘being okay’.

“You made a strange expression, something I’d never seen before,” Jaden continued, eyes glancing at him and away again. At least he wasn’t the only one wary of prolonged eye contact. “What was it?”

Dean wasn’t sure that he had an answer. After all, one cannot see the expressions one makes, not without a mirror.

“I don’t know.” That was all he could think to say. “Look, it’s not a big deal, so just drop it. Okay?”

“Are you worried about school?”

“I said, _drop it._ ” Dean didn’t think he imagined the alarm on Jaden’s face at his raised voice, at the way he sat up and turned towards the other boy, hands strangling the blanket beneath him.

“Alright,” said Jaden, hands raised in the universal symbol of _I’m unarmed._ A pause, then: “What’s your favorite thing to read?”

“What?” He was thrown, the sudden change of topic so different from the one before. The question took a moment to register. “Like, my favorite book or genre?”

“How about...author,” suggested the other boy, that smile back again as he turned to better face Dean, a considering expression on his face. 

He thought about the question for a moment, all the books he read, whether swiped from a second hand shop - _and later returned, as deftly as before, damn Sam and his puppy eyes_ \- or read in the library of the latest school.

“J. R. R. Tolkien, I have to say.” This was a subject he could talk about, not going too far into detail, no pressure riding on his answer. “I liked the Hobbit more than Lord of the Rings.”

Jaden nodded, a sage expression forming. The voice he spoke in couldn’t be described as anything but _wise_ : “A very good choice, my friend, a very good choice.”

It was enough to startle a chuckle out of Dean, the flash of a grin, there and gone. The other boy stared for a moment, eyes wide, before his smile grew and he was off, talking about his favorite character - _Bombur_ \- and scene - _the riddles_ \- while Dean listened.

Before he knew it, nearly an hour had passed and Jaden was standing, saying he had some school work he should’ve done the day before, saying that Dean’s school stuff was all put together in the entry hall, his hand on the doorknob and mouth still moving.

“So that I don’t forget,” Jaden said, still with that casual tone, with that open expression and smile. “You passed all the tests. They put you in eleventh grade. They said you should be a senior, but mom wanted you with people your age.”

The door was closing behind him before Dean had a chance to respond.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Sam was already brushing his teeth by the time Dean dragged himself to the bathroom, back aching as every little movement. He’d have to put the new medication on it, some sort of numbing agent in the little tube of ointment.

His brother had a light air around him, something Dean hadn’t seen in a long, long time. If it wasn’t for the toothbrush in Sam’s mouth, he’d be grinning.

“Excited for school tomorrow?” He didn’t bother to ask what grade Sam had been placed in - his brother had always been smarter, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he’d gotten into his proper grade, seventh.

And, if they had made similar decisions for the both of them, then Sam hadn’t skipped any grades, instead put with kids his age.

Sam nodded, his hair flopping in front of his face and snagging on the corners of his mouth. He smirked at his little brother as he leaned to grab his own toothbrush, toothpaste following a moment later. “Got a little something on your face.”

Sam scowled as he rinsed and spat, hooking the wayward hair behind his ears. “I know that.”

“Hey man, I’m just doing my duty, reminding you how to act around polite company.” Dean spoke around his toothbrush, his free hand reaching out and ruffling Sam’s hair, sending more in front of his face. “Gotta make sure they know you weren’t raised by wolves.”

The scowl was honestly impressive at that point. “I was raised by you,” Sam pointed out. “They already know I was raised by wolves.”

“So what, I’m more than one wolf?” He smirked as Sam realized his little slip up. “I’m flattered Sammy, really, I am. But I can only be one wolf.”

“You’re ridiculous.” His brother brushed by him, done in the bathroom, shoulder knocking into Dean’s back on his way out. He didn’t hide his wince fast enough. Sam paused, scanning him in the way he always did for an injury. “Are you okay?”

Dean ignored his instinct to roll his shoulders, checking what was broken -- he already knew what was injured. “I’m fine.” His brother didn’t look convinced at _all,_ so he continued, flashing a bright grin. “What are you, my mother? I’m fine, go to bed.”

Sam rolled his eyes, turning down the hall and heading towards his room -- his own, this time. Casting him one last look, his brother slipped inside, the door shutting with a click behind him.

Dean sighed as he turned back towards the mirror, bright lights illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes, sleeves riding up to expose the pink scars that still encircled his wrists.

Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, my friends!! (almost forgot that comma)
> 
> As I said, shitty shit is going on in my life, but I'm glad I got this chapter out!! As you might've noticed, I added a chapter to the count. 
> 
> I just felt like it would be better to put this (admittedly, longer than I'd thought it be) chapter, instead of drawing it out a week or two more.
> 
> Lemme know what y'all thought!! You guys keep me going on this.


	21. Blue Eyed Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. I know there was a bit of a delay again, but hey, this chapter is like 5,000 words so hopefully that makes up for it.
> 
> I really hope you've enjoyed the story so far, and I hope you'll like this chapter as well!!!

The digital clock beside his bed read 4:30 am, red numbers bright against its black backdrop.

For the first time since before the hospital, Dean had woken as usual, far before one should be up and moving around, at the hour John would usually start  _ hunting. _

He’d trained that into himself, the ability to wake early and be fully aware within seconds. He knew there was no chance of falling back asleep again, not with adrenaline humming in his veins, not with leftover instincts screaming at him to  _ get up _ and  _ check on Sam. _

Dean pulled the covers off of him with a huff, socked feet swinging off the bed and settling on the carpet -- gently, of course; he wasn’t  _ trying _ to wake everyone with him.

He stood, gingerly, back aching as he straightened. He was going to need to ask Jaden for help again, he couldn’t reach all the burns by himself.

Thankfully, despite the creaky stairs at the end of the hall, there weren't any loud floorboards in Dean’s room, a definite advantage as he moved towards his bookshelf, eyeing the tattered novels that barely covered half a shelf.

He needed something to distract him, because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep again before seven am, the time they had their alarms set to. 

Dean pulled his copy of  _ Eragon _ from the shelf, the front cover held to the spine by packing tape, the paperback’s edges soft and worn down.

The book had been given to him by a school librarian, way back in fourth grade, when she’d realized that the books offered in the elementary school’s library were far too easy for him. He’d hept it with him ever since, only lending it to Sam when his brother asked to read it.

The weight of the book was familiar, as he settled back on his bed, the bedside lamp turned on achingly slow, the click of its button far too loud in the early morning silence. He could only hope that Sam hadn’t awoken at his movements, small they may have been.

They both slept lightly, had for a very long time, and were enough in tune with each other’s actions that they would wake if the other brother shifted in a room that shared their wall.

Humans, though they cannot see it, can sense infinitesimal movements in the air, can feel the difference between a single atom layer if they were to run their hand over a surface. 

Dean wasn’t sure where he’d read that, but the concept had stuck with him since he’d heard of it, a real definition for his ‘sixth sense’.

The hours passed without notice, his attention sucked completely into the book, only looking up when he heard Amy, then Paul, pass his door and head downstairs, nearly half an hour apart.

Parents started early, apparently.

He turned his alarm off minutes before it sounded, giving himself time to dress before the bathroom was overrun and he’d have to wait until after eating to take a piss. He’d had to go since he’d woken up.

Jeans went on, a thermal long sleeve and flannel following, jacket draped on the made bed and boots placed at the foot of it, leaning against a leg of the bed frame. His backpack, plain black, went next to the shoes, school materials already inside.

Dean was out of his bedroom in under two minutes, the cold air motivating him to move faster than what was necessary to secure his place in the bathroom.

He was inside right as Sam’s door swung open, his eyes meeting Dean’s from across the hall right as he shut the bathroom door, smirking at his little brother’s cry of anger.

“You better not be taking long in there! There’s four of us now, you know.”   
  


“Don’t worry,” he called through the wood. “I’m just taking a shower. Won’t be long.”

There was a moment of silence, and Dean snickered to himself as he turned to the toilet.

“No, you’re not, Dean.” Sam’s voice rung with the petulance that came with being the one waiting in a cold hallway, bladder full. “You’re fully dressed.”

“Maybe I like showering with clothes on.” he did not receive a response.

It took him half a minute to finish up; as was said, it was fucking cold. Freeze-your-balls-off cold. Want-to-boil-yourself-to-death-instead cold. Lemme-go-back-to-sleep cold.

That kind of cold was always a good encouragement to move quickly, lest you freeze to death on the toilet, or in socks and underwear as you change.

His brother was glaring at him and shivering slightly when Dean emerged, arms wrapped around himself. Dean smirked down at him, ruffling Sam’s hair as he passed.

“Hey!” Sam’s yell followed him down the stairs, and he laughed without turning to look back.

“It helps with circulation!”

Paul was in the dining room when he entered it, reading glasses perched on his nose as he squinted at the newspaper on the table. The man looked up when Dean came in, raising his coffee in some sort of acknowledgment.

“Cereal is in the kitchen, milk’s in the fridge.” Paul’s voice was a testament to the early hour he’d woken at. Dean nodded in return, hand twitching at his side when he instinctively went to wave.

He turned to the next room, hoping to avoid any conversation with him, when Paul called after him.

“Oh! Before I forget, I should give you this. And Sam, as well.” 

Dean spun back reluctantly, preparing to take whatever crap the Turners thought they needed now, jolting back reflexively when he found Paul standing just a few feet away -- he hadn’t heard him get up.

_ You’re slipping, _ said a voice in his head.

He told that voice to  _ shut the hell up. _

In Paul’s hands were two cell phones, nothing too fancy, touch screens but not the latest model. One had a red phone case, while the other was encased in a green one.

“...Thanks.” What does one say, when one does not want the giver’s generosity? “Really, you guys don’t need to-”

“Before you decline it, Jaden and Elle each have one as well. It’s more for safety then anything else, in case you don’t want one.” Paul’s tone is hesitant, testing the waters, the rock and shark infested waters that surrounded Dean and his relationships with father figures.

“Like, you’re going to track us?” He wouldn’t be surprised; it was logical, honestly. He’d be surprised if they  _ didn’t. _

“There is a way to track it, but that will only be used if you go missing, or if you lose your phone.” Paul met his eyes steadily, not shying away when Dean narrowed his eyes. “Just for letting us know where you’re going, if you’ve got plans after school or if you need help.”

He pauses and Dean instinctively stiffened as he slipped the phone into his back pocket, waiting for the  _ but… _

“My, Amy, Jaden, Elle, and your brother’s contacts are already entered, and you can add whoever you want if needed.”

Oh. 

Okay.

“Thank you, that’s really...that’s really generous of you.” Dean held himself still, resisting the urge to fiddle with his hem through monumental effort. “I’m gonna go- go eat breakfast.” 

He didn’t wait for Paul to respond, just turned and went back to the kitchen. He hoped the man didn’t take it as rudeness, he didn’t want to stand there and thank him another four times until it felt like enough.

The cereal was indeed in the kitchen, bowls already set out, spoons inside. A box of frosted flakes rested on the counter -- he’d only had the knock-off before, and even then, not often. cereal required too many utensils, and was hard to eat in a moving car.

He was surprised at the cereal choice, though. He knew the Lucky Charms from a few days ago had been a treat, had seen the Cheerios and Honey Bunches of Oats.

Maybe they were the type of family that did ‘first day of school’ special things, pictures and all the crap.

God, he really hoped they weren’t going to do some cheesy fucking picture to commemorate the occasion.

  
  


______________

  
  


There was a picture. Thankfully, it wasn’t taken outside.

Elle had rolled her eyes when Paul had told them to line up in the living room, backpacks at their feet, while Jaden had grinned and tugged Dean into the room, Sam following with a smirk on his face.

He didn’t miss how carefully Jaden placed his grip in his wrists, perfectly avoiding the burns encircling them.

It didn’t hurt that bad -- he’d applied the medication to them and had gotten the other boy to put it on his back, but he appreciated the sentiment.

After the photo was taken, hats and gloves were shoved into his and Sam’s hands, a quick apology from Paul for not giving them the items earlier. Then, the man had gone to warm up the car, his own gloves in place.

As he’d been told by Jaden and Elle, getting driven to school was an uncommon occurrence, and the rest of the year they’d be walking unless it was storming or they’d gotten a ride from a friend.

The drive to campus was barely five minutes, the walk only twenty at the most. It wouldn’t be an issue.

Paul gave them each a “Have a good day!” while they climbed out of the car, Sam automatically coming to his side as they trailed after the siblings in front of them. They didn’t have to walk far from the car before they were swept into the flow of other students, people crowding on all sides.

It took Dean exactly five seconds to realize how much of a problem that was.

An arm went around Sam’s shoulders, grip tighter than the situation warranted, their shoulders knocking together as he forced his way through the crowd, eyes trained on Jaden’s backpack.

It took calling after the siblings three times for the pair ahead of them to slow, Dean’s voice drowned out by the crush of people around them.

Jaden and Elle were standing to the side of the walkway, the other boy beckoning the brothers in their direction. “Sorry,” he called, as they neared. “I thought you were right behind us.”

“It’s alright,” he said gruffly, forcing himself to relax. He hadn’t had a reaction like this for a long time, an  _ especially _ long time since it happened at a school. He  _ knew _ nothing was wrong, knew nothing was going to happen-

The knowledge didn’t usually help much.

Jaden watched him for a moment instead of responding, eyes flicking from Sam’s face, to his shoulder and Dean’s hand on it, then to Dean’s face, a calculating expression in place as he watched them.

It unnerved Dean, just for a moment, to see that look on Jaden, the scanning way he examined them before shrugging his shoulders, as if the other teen was trying to shake something off. He looked to them now with a bright smile in place, the expression almost forced. “We have to pick your schedules up from the office, then we’re all good. Mom should have them ready.”

He’d forgotten for a moment that Amy was the principal here. That might end up being more of a problem than anything else.

He wasn’t sure how many times he could disappoint the Turners before they decided he and Sam weren’t worth the trouble.

  
  


_______________

  
  


The office lady was all smiles as she handed Sam and Dean their schedules, her voice a cheerful chirp as she informed them of the school rules, those that could not be broken.

They knew the drill, it never changed much from town to town, from school to school. No tobacco of any kind permitted, along with any other substances, no alcohol, no gum or sticky candy, and no harassment under any circumstances.

The last one was a bit of a surprise: though it was something he’d heard before, very rarely did the school administrators actually enforce the rule.

But, as Ms. Lewis had adamantly informed them, they had a strict no bullying policy, and all students were safe at the school, no matter what their grade.

It was a load of optimistic bullshit, but the idea of it was nice. There was no way in  _ hell _ that a school, a combination of middle schoolers and high schoolers on one campus, would have no harassment or bullying happening. It was just impossible, no matter how many signs about ‘no put-downs’ the staff put up.

At least he didn’t laugh in her face when she told them. Dean may have been an asshole, but he was an asshole with tact. Mostly.

After all, he’d want the office ladies to like him when he got kicked out of class.

Jaden led the way back into the hallway, which was clearing up as students filed into classrooms. The bell was tolling and Jaden didn’t waste a moment, grabbing Dean by his arm -  _ and releasing him immediately when he flinched _ \- to pull him along, Elle paired up with Sam.

“We have most of our classes together, but you’ve got a few advanced classes I don’t take,” he called over his shoulder, Dean sticking close behind as they climbed the staircase.

On the ground floor, he could see Elle talking to Sam as she led his brother to their class, the hallways now practically empty, devoid of students, the occasional straggler hurrying inside.

Dean could feel the tightness in his throat easing as he watched his brother, barely noticing as Jaden continued to talk. The anxiety coiled tight inside him was dissipating, the trust he’d unknowingly placed in Elle and Jaden soothing his nerves.

He was jolted from his thoughts when a hand came down around his wrist -  _ always careful around the scars _ \- Jaden’s usually smiling face creased with a frown. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, then followed Dean’s trailing gaze to their siblings, the pair nearly out of view. “They’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

  
  


_______________

  
  


His history teacher was nice enough, even if her smile was a bit too condescending for his tastes. She sat him between Jaden and a girl who was, apparently, one of Jaden’s friends.

_ Oh, no! The new student doesn’t know how to make any friends! I’m sure his foster brother can help him! _

She did, in fact, suggest that Jaden help him make friends. Dean’s contempt for the teacher tripled as soon as the words left his mouth.

“I think I’ll do just fine, Ms…”

“Ms. Wessel,” she provided.

Dean smiled a smile that greatly contested the teacher’s condescending one. “Ms. Wessel,” he said, drawing the name out. He could almost feel Jaden’s surprise rolling off of him. “I’m sure I can manage to talk to other people, without the  _ help _ of my brother.”

Ms. Wessel didn’t seem to know how to respond, a shocked look taking over her face before her eyes narrowed, obviously deciding she did  _ not _ like Dean and hence would not be ‘helping him adjust’ as she’d been doing so well previously.

“Well, Mr. Campbell, that’s good to know. Please, take your seat.” The woman turned and swept to the front of the class, posture rigid as she turned to address the entire class.

He’d always hated teachers like her, those who thought they were a great person for helping the poor, lonely, disadvantaged students by changing the seating chart.

“Take out your textbooks and turn to page one hundred and fourteen. We will be continuing our chapter from the previous class. Dean, as you’re behind, do your best to read up to chapter five; that’s where we are.”

_ Oh, fuck you. _

Her announcement had her intended effect, causing the entire class to turn and stare at Dean as he stood from his chair, smiling thinly, and crossed the room to cabinets that held the history textbooks.

He could feel Jaden’s wince from beside as he opened the cabinet door, perhaps a bit too forcefully, the wood knocking against the door beside it.

It was only when arrived back at his desk that Ms. Wessel continued her lesson, calling for the students to take out their notes and continue from where they left off as she lectured -  _ Dean, you don’t need to take notes. I know it can be hard. _ \- he wasn’t sure how long he’d last in this class before flipping off the teacher.

They were five minutes into the notetaking, pencils scratching around Dean as he flipped his pages purposely loudly, just to see Ms. Wessel’s eyes flick to him each time, when the blonde girl beside him tapped his desk with her pencil.

“Hey,” she said, tone barely above that of a whisper. “I’m Jo. Sorry you got stuck in this class to suffer with the rest of us.”

“Dean,” he replied, equally quietly. “Nice to meet ya.”

  
  


_______________

  
  


The rest of his teachers were fine, most seemed nice enough and it looked like they knew what they were doing. Ms. Wessel, though, he could tell she was looking for something to call him out on.

According to Jo, Ms. Wessel was like that, especially towards students who talked back in any way.

_ Great. _ He only hoped she was up to the challenge.

The first half of his classes were shared with Jaden, while the second half -  _ AP Calc, Engineering, and Physics  _ \- were not. Jaden expressed his disappointment for this loudly and for an extended period of time, to the point where their English teacher politely asked him to quiet down.

And their English teacher was a complete push over, so that was something.

It wasn’t until Dean was following Jaden to lunch, when he realized he had no way of finding Sam, nor of guessing where he’d be sitting, not with the sheer number of students surrounding them.

Jaden, he realized, had this superpower called  _ observation. _ It wasn’t even a minute before his foster brother pulled him to the side of the hall, hand on his shoulder, calling for his friends to: “Go ahead, we’ll be there in a second.”

Dean hadn’t realized how obvious his anxiety was, the tightening in his throat and hitch in his breaths, until Jaden’s grip tightened and shook him, bringing Dean’s gaze up to his face.

_ “Breathe.” _ He read from Jaden’s lips.

“Sam, he- I don’t- I can’t find Sam, I gotta-” Dean cut himself off sharply, before more words could spill from his mouth.

“Your brother is fine, Dean. He’s okay.” Jaden’s voice was clearer now, though the sounds of the hallway remained muffled. “He’s okay, he’s at lunch with his friends.”

“How?” He’d meant to continue, but the words had dried up in his throat before they could leave it.  _ How do you know? _

“Because I know Sam,” Jaden replied, and he seemed to sense that wasn’t enough, and continued, voice firmer now. “You can ask, can’t you? He should have his phone on him.”

The phones, fuck, Dean had completely forgotten about them. Dropping to a knee on the floor, his backpack swung from his shoulders in the same motion, he dug through the small pocket, searching for that smooth piece of metal and glass.

The pocket wasn’t big, so it wasn’t a minute before he had the phone in his hand, fumbling to swipe it open -  _ he hadn’t bothered with a passcode yet _ \- missing the contacts icon twice, Sam’s number popping and calling in barely five seconds.

It rang, and rang, and rang, going to voicemail, Dean cursing under his breath and dialing again, straightening up to prevent himself from fidgeting. 

_ It rang, and rang, and- _

_ “Dean? What’s wrong?” _

He didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Nothing’s wrong, sorry. I just wanted to know where’d you’d be sitting at lunch.”

There was a pause, and for a moment he worried that his brother wouldn’t tell him, or that he’d write Dean off as overprotective and hang up.  _ “I’ll meet you outside the cafeteria, I’m with some friends.” _

“Is Elle with you?”

Another pause.

_ “No.” _ What?  _ “I told her to go, Dean. She didn’t want to, but I said I’d be fine. And I am.” _

Gotta let the bird leave the nest someday, and all that, but that day was not today. “Where are you right now?”

_ “I’m on my way to  _ meet you _ outside the cafeteria.”  _ There was the Sam he knew, an irritated edge growing in his voice.

“Good.” Dean hung up before either of them could say anything else, whether it was a useless reassurance or something they’d regret. He swung his back onto a shoulder and grabbed Jaden’s arm, pulling the other boy after him without pausing.

Jaden didn’t seem to mind all that much. “So, where’re we going?”

“To stand outside the cafeteria,” Dean replied, letting go of his arm while Jaden kept pace with him. “Sam’s with some friends, I know he’s fine, I just…”

_ I just want to make sure he’s okay. _

Dean couldn’t finish his sentence, but from the look on Jaden’s face, he didn’t need to.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long to reach the double doors that marked the entrance, and it took even less time for Dean to spot his little brother, a brown mop of hair with two kids flanking him on either side.

The hallways were much less crowded than they had been, most students having gone into the lunch hall or outside to eat. There was no one shoulder past, no flow of a crowd to push against.

Sam’s eyes met his and Dean didn’t realize he’d started jogging until he was standing in front of his brother, whose hands were tight around the straps of his backpack. Nervous and defensive, that’s what Sam was.

The two kids on either side of Sam didn’t say a word, though the blonde on his left looked like she wanted to. 

A million things to say were whirling through Dean’s head, accusations and concerned questions and angry comments, but he settled on asking: “You good?”

Sam’s surprise showed only for a moment, before it was packed away and out of sight, a neutral expression taking its place. Masks, one of the few things the pair of them were experts at.

“I’m okay, I already told you.” Still snappy, still irritated. Instead of continuing, though, Sam turned to his friends, gesturing to each in turn. “This is Jess and Gabriel.” The girl gave Dean a wave, while the boy shot him a wink -- one he chose to ignore.

“You’re gonna eat with them, right?” He checked. It was good that Sam had friends already, he’d never been as quick to that as Dean, usually too absorbed in his books or assignments.

“Yeah, we’re going to eat outside.”

“Are you sure that’s not too cold?” The biting December wind was not to be underestimated, not even with their new jackets and the gloves that had been pushed into their hands that morning, halfway through the car ride.

He got a  _ very _ dramatic eye roll in response to his concern. “I’ll be fine, Dean. I’m not a little kid.”

_ Sure you aren’t. _

  
  


_______________

  
  


Lunch passed far quicker than one thinks forty five minutes ought to last. Enough time to finish your food, start an assignment if you’re ambitious enough, make small talk until the bell rings.

Which was precisely what Dean did. 

Jaden’s friends were nice, most of them loud and cheerful, poking fun at each other every chance they got. Jo kept up a litany of sarcasm next to him, knocking everyone at the table down a peg at least once.

It made it easier to sit there and listen, to pretend that he was really part of their little -  _ big _ \- group, that he knew what the jokes were referencing and who had a crush on who, with Jo reeling him into every conversation.

That’s how he ended up walking to his next class, Physics, shoulder to shoulder with Jo and Benny -  _ one of Jaden’s friends who Dean could picture himself hanging out with _ \- while they pointed out the best and worst teachers.

There were many categories, he was told, to place you on the sliding scale of teacher-goodness. He was not told any of the categories.

Dean almost wished the walk had taken longer when they arrived at his classroom, all the way up on the third floor. “Well, thanks guys. I appreciate you talkin’ to me.”

_ Way to make it awkward, great going there. _

Benny left with a hand clapped to his shoulder and a shake of his head, telling him to  _ “Get over yourself, you’re not that bad.” _ Jo followed after him, calling out a  _ “See ya, Campbell.” _

He was a little late as he ducked into the classroom, the bell having rung not thirty seconds ago. His teacher, a tall man at the front of the class, simply pointed him to a seat, one near the front, when he made the quick excuse of not knowing where to go.

It seemed that that day, the class was going to be doing group projects, some sort of poster explaining the rules of physics -- pretty basic stuff, to be doing mid-December. And, it’s always fun to talk to new people,  _ especially _ when you don’t know  _ anyone. _

Dean was good at talking to people, he was. He knew that. He’d been told, by some girl in some town however many months back, that he could talk to anyone, if he really wanted to.

See, this issue was,  _ he didn’t really want to.  _ At least, not right now, not in a new environment without his brother in his sights, without something to really do.

But, you don’t get a choice when the teacher assigns your groups, when you’re not given the option to work alone and instead have to make nice with two new people. So fuck it, he was going to do his best and  _ make friends. _

One of the people in his group was nearby, and she dragged her desk to meet his while he turned the desks to fit. She introduced herself with a smile, wavy brown hair bouncing as she stuck out her hand. “Hey, I’m Lisa.”

He matched her smile, shaking her hand as he spoke. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dean.”

“You’re with the Turners, right?”

_ Fuck, not personal questions. Please, no personal questions. _ “Yeah, what about it?”

“A friend of mine is too nervous to ask for Jaden’s number.” Lisa smirked; the fact was obviously something she found amusing. “I was hoping you could talk to Jaden about it.”

_ Oh, thank god, not personal questions. _ “I...I guess I could?” He had no fucking clue who she was talking about, this friend, and he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Does Jaden know them?”

“They play on the same baseball team. He’s a new pitcher.” Lisa handed him one of the dense textbooks that each group seemed to have, though he didn’t see where she’d grabbed it from. “Open to chapter four.”

Dean dutifully opened the book, flipping through the pages instead of reading the table of contents. “I’ll think about it,” he said; he wasn’t going to give a more solid answer than that. “Aren’t we supposed to have a third member?”

Lisa straightened from where she was leaning on the desk, pointing across the room. “He’s coming over right now.”

Great, another person to talk to, to make small talk with, to deflect any questions asked.  _ God, he just wanted to work alone. Today was not the day to be making friends. _

And then he looked up.

The sound of the textbook slipped from his hands and landing on the desk was far louder than it had any right to be. 

Dark brown hair and light eyes, black jeans and converse, rounded off with a light blue sweater that looked unfairly flattering. The teen was indeed walking towards them, though his head was tilted down as he dug through his backpack.

Dean could not be  _ blamed _ for the slight sounds that came out of his already open mouth as he glanced up, a blue gaze meeting that of green. He was the most attractive person Dean had ever seen, and that was something.

“Hello,” he said as he neared. “My name is Castiel.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!!
> 
> For anyone disappointed for the lack of Charlie and minimal Benny: I have only just started season 7, and I know about those characters from various things I've spoiled for myself on YouTube (I'm trying so fucking hard not to spoil season 15) along with fan fictions and other things. I'm just really scared to mischaracterize them, so I'm being careful until I get to Charlie in season 7 and I watch/read enough with Benny that his character won't suck.
> 
> I reread my earlier chapters on this recently and -- Jesus, thank you to everyone who read those chapters and decided "eh, they might get better at this." I would rewrite those chapters, but that's a lot of effort and I sadly don't have much time.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented on this, and thanks to those who have been silent readers as well. I hope you enjoyed the story (I know I have) and I hope you'll read the next installment in the series when it is written.
> 
> Lemme know what you thought!! I really appreciate it :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story. Lemme know if you saw any spelling, punctuation, or grammar mistakes (please, I really wanna know)
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome


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